Smile
by EKWTSM9
Summary: "All the world is full of suffering. It is also full of overcoming." - Helen Keller
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

"Homicide, Sergeant Haseejian."

" _Norm, is Mike in yet?"_

"No. I thought he was picking you up?"

" _Yeah, he was, but there's been no sign of him. He's already fifteen minutes late – and you know that's not like him. I called his house and there's no answer. He might be on the way but he usually calls when he's gonna be late, which is almost never."_

"Yeah, don't I know it."

" _Look, he had a…_ date _with Irene last night. Do me a favor, will ya, and call Robbery and see if she's in yet? Then call me back, okay?"_

"Sure."

# # # # #

" _Yeah?"_

"So, I called Robbery – Irene ain't in yet either. What do you think, they, ah….I don' know, forgot the time..?"

" _Mike? Forget to come into work? Yeah, right. Listen, I'm gonna swing by his place, see if I can locate his car. I'll call you if I find out anything."_

# # # # #

The Porsche swung onto De Haro and Steve was only slightly relieved to see the tan LTD parked at the curb in front of his partner's house. If he was home, why wasn't Mike answering his phone?

The inspector took the steps two at a time, pounding on the door and pushing the doorbell when he got to the stoop. When there was no response, he found the door key on his ring and let himself in.

The lights were off and the place was silent. Mike's shoes were by the front door and his hat and suitcoat tossed unceremoniously on the couch. Soundlessly, Steve peeked into the empty kitchen then mounted the stairs to the second floor. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar and he discreetly pushed it open.

Still in his dress shirt and pants, Mike was sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard, forearms resting on his drawn-up knees. He looked shaken and scared.

Trying to mask his concern, Steve moved slowly and cautiously deeper into the room. "Mike?" he said gently, "Mike, are you okay?"

His partner turned hesitantly towards him and a slightly confused smile crossed his face. "Steve? What are you doing here?"

"Ah, you were supposed to pick me up? We're supposed to be at work?" Steve ventured carefully.

Mike's brow furrowed and he slowly raised his left wrist to look at his watch. "Oh yeah, hunh… Sorry about that," he said quietly, sounding disoriented.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed. "Mike, what's going on? Are you okay?"

The older man nodded but said nothing.

"Did something happen between you and Irene last night?"

At the mention of his ' lady friend's' name, Mike started slightly and turned sharply to his companion. "What do you mean?"

Taken aback, Steve continued delicately, "Well, I just thought maybe, I don't know, you guys had a falling out of some kind...?" He was groping for a euphemistic alternative for 'being dumped'.

Mike smiled wistfully and shook his head. "No, ah, no, we're good, we're, ah, we're fine," he said almost breathlessly then swallowed hard, his expression turning to helpless confusion.

"Mike, you're starting to scare me here. What the hell's going on?"

The older man turned stunned eyes in his direction, seeming to really see his young partner for the first time. He took a deep breath and held it, bringing his right hand to his face and gripping his lower jaw. His gaze slowly drifted away and when he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "It's Irene. She's, ah, she's pregnant."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One**

"Homicide, Haseejian."

" _Yeah, Norm, it's Steve. Listen, ah, I found Mike, everything's okay. But, ah, listen, ah, we're gonna take the day off, okay? You know, we just got off the Judge Matthews case and we're both kinda beat so, ah, so we'll see you tomorrow, okay?"_

"Uh, okay… So, ah, do you want me to tell Rudy or are you gonna do it?"

" _Oh, yeah, ah, well, if you could do it, that would be great. Just tell him, well, you know, just tell him we're both gonna take it easy today and we'll be back in tomorrow morning."_

"Okay…"

" _But, you know, if all hell breaks loose, leave a message on Mike's machine, will ya? And we'll get back to you when we can."_

"Sure, ah, that sounds good to me. Will do. Ah, say hi to Mike for me –"

The line disconnected before the Armenian sergeant could finish his goodbye.

# # # # #

Steve Keller hung up the wall phone and stood stock-still for several long seconds. He slowly turned towards the living room; he could feel his heart pounding in his ears. He still hadn't figured out how he felt about the bombshell his boss, partner and best friend had dropped on him mere minutes before.

He inhaled deeply then let it out in a loud rush, striding purposefully from the kitchen through the living room and up the stairs to the second floor. With a confidence he really didn't feel, he re-entered the master bedroom.

Mike was still sitting on the bed; he literally hadn't moved since Steve's unexpected arrival. The shell-shocked look was still obvious as his head slowly swiveled towards the door.

Steve stopped halfway to the bed, smiling suddenly and, he hoped, not artificially when Mike's eyes finally found his face. He clapped his hands. "So," he began with enthusiasm, "ah, I bet you haven't had anything to eat since last night, am I right?" Without waiting for a reply, he plowed on, "So what say you get changed and grab your jacket and we'll head out for some breakfast and then maybe go for a walk… What do you think?"

He had been the recipient of innumerable 'walk-and-talks' with his older and more experienced partner, especially during the early years; they had petered out recently and, if truth be told, he missed them. Maybe Mike thought he had no more wisdom to impart.

Before Mike could protest, Steve turned and headed back out of the room. "I'll wait for you downstairs," he called over his shoulder in a voice that brooked no argument.

Mike watched him go then, with a heavy resigned sigh, slid across the bed to sit on the end, then got slowly to his feet.

# # # # #

Twenty minutes later, wearing khakis and a blue-and-white checked shirt, and freshly shaven, Mike plodded down the stairs, avoiding his partner's stare as he stopped at the closet near the front door, slipping a black windbreaker from a hangar and stepping into his shoes. Steve had picked up the fedora from the couch and held it out. Swallowing a smile, the younger man followed as Mike opened the heavy front door and stepped out into the bright mid autumn sunshine, setting and adjusting the beloved hat, with its customary right tilt, on his head.

They made their way down the concrete stairs in silence. When they got to the sidewalk, Steve took a step towards his sports car as Mike started automatically for the sedan. The younger man cleared his throat. "Hey, ah, if I'm driving, we're taking the Porsche." He chuckled as he keyed open the passenger side door then jogged around to the driver's side, peripherally watching as, without protest, Mike crossed slowly to the low-slung vehicle.

Steve glanced over as he started the car and shifted into Drive, pulling quickly away from the curb. Mike was staring out the windshield, his face still expressionless. Steve bit his lips to keep the grin he was struggling to contain from exploding into existence.

"So, ah, where is there a good place to eat around here?" he asked genially, his eyes darting back and forth from the road to his partner. "I don't know this part of town all that well. Where do you recommend?"

Mike seemed to pull himself from the trance. "Oh, um, there's a little place called Cora's over on Connecticut, near Mariposa. They serve breakfast all day." He slowly raised his left wrist and looked at his watch. "It shouldn't be too busy now."

"Sounds good. After breakfast we can head over to Baker or the Park… What do you think?" Steve glanced over, nodding enthusiastically with raised eyebrows.

Mike's stare was laced with appreciation and he nodded slowly with a small warm smile. He knew what the younger man was trying to do, and he was grateful. He hadn't been able to think straight since Irene had broken the news the night before. He didn't even remember driving home.

# # # # #

"There you go, Mike, just the way you like it." The waitress put two large plates on the table in front of them. Steve looked up and smiled at the heavy-set middle-aged woman with the friendly grin. "Enjoy," she chuckled as she winked at the younger man, "and I'll be back in a few with a fresh pot of coffee to refill your cups."

"Thanks, Donna," Mike smiled warmly as he looked at the enormous omelette on his plate and took a deep breath.

Steve was unrolling the knife and fork from the napkin, eyeing the tall stack of pancakes on his own plate. "You're a regular here, I see," he said lightly and Mike shrugged slightly.

"Donna just has a good memory."

"Unh-hunh." Steve's eyebrows threatened to climb into his hairline. "Good lord, there's enough here for two meals." He picked up the syrup dispenser and started pouring.

Chuckling, Mike unrolled his own cutlery and spread the napkin on his lap. "Tell me that again when you finish; you'll be licking the plate." He cut a piece of the omelette and popped it into his mouth, smiling in appreciation. Grinning, Steve attacked the pancakes and Mike watched in anticipation of the first bite. The closed eyes and look of ecstasy was all the older man needed to see and he laughed. "Told ya."

Steve looked up at his partner's downturned head, a frown briefly creasing his features. He debated bringing up the spectre of the elephant in the room but decided, if Mike didn't do it first, he would wait till they were alone.

And so the remainder of their meal passed in silence. They were both hungry, and it didn't take long for their plates to empty. Mike, with a wry smile, grabbed the check and, as he crossed to the cash register to pay, Steve stepped back out into the bright sunlight.

"Where do you feel like going?" he asked when Mike stepped through Cora's front door and approached the Porsche. "The Beach or the Park? Your choice."

Mike stopped and stared at the younger man for several long seconds, knowing that by this point he was not going to avoid 'the talk'. He took a deep breath and sighed, then shook his head slowly in resignation, a slight smile curling his lips. "I don't feel like yelling over waves today. Let's go to the Park."

Chuckling, Steve stepped into the street towards the driver's side door as Mike got into the car.

# # # # #

They had crossed the small open area near the parking lot; the very pleasant autumn day meant there were more strollers and picnickers than usual for a mid-week late morning.

Mike was walking with his hands in his jacket pockets and his head down. Steve, his own hands in his pants pockets, looked sideways at his partner and swallowed a smile. "When did she find out?" he asked quietly.

Mike inhaled loudly but didn't look up. "Yesterday morning. She went to see her doctor."

Steve nodded, tight-lipped, then asked gently, "Mike, ah, don't get me wrong… but, ah… I mean, Irene, she's… well, you know, she's not that young –"

Mike's head came up quickly, his eyes wide. "I know what you're gonna say, you don't have to say it." The words tumbled out quickly, then he seemed to get a grip on himself and paused. "That's what she thought too. Hell, we _both_ thought it."

Steve looked at him from under a lowered brow. "And you weren't using…?"

Mike looked away and cleared his throat, and there was a slight hesitation in his step. "No…no… well, you know, we didn't think…" Closing his eyes briefly, he sighed heavily, looking back at the path they were walking, and Steve almost felt sorry for him.

' _Almost,'_ Steve thought to himself, wondering how far along in this conversation they had to be before Mike would begin to see the humour in the situation. With a smirk, he launched a trial balloon. "You know, Charlie Chaplin was 68 when his last kid was born…"

Mike stopped dead in his tracks and his head snapped up again, hands coming out of his pockets. He inhaled deeply and quickly and his mouth had opened in preparation for what was expected to be a loud and vociferous explosion.

Steve had stopped as well and was looking at him with a warm, empathetic smile. Mike froze for a split second, the anger dying as quickly as it had arisen, and he sagged, tilting his head back slightly as he raised his hands to his face, placing the heels of his hands over his eyes. "Oh, god, Steve, what am I gonna do?" he moaned, and the younger man could hear a lightness in his voice that hadn't been there before.

Chuckling, Steve watched as Mike lowered his hands and stared at him imploringly. Turning, the younger man reached out and slid an arm across his partner's shoulders, and they began walking again. Chuckling as well, Mike looked down and shook his head, his hands finding their way back into his pockets.

"You know," Steve said quietly after a short silence, "I always thought that when this kind of… _situation_ arose, if it ever did, it would be _me_ needing to talk to _you_ …" He chuckled gently and tightened his grip on his partner's shoulder.

Mike looked at him sideways and exhaled loudly. "You're not helping," he grumbled good-naturedly, then groaned again.

Steve laughed and slapped the older man's back then stuffed his hands into his pants pockets as they kept walking. "So, what exactly happened last night?"

Mike snorted but didn't look up. "Well, we went out to dinner like we usually do, and we were gonna go to a movie. You know, it was the first time we've both had the same night off in a couple of weeks… Anyway, I, ah, I noticed she didn't, well, you know, she just wasn't herself when she got to the restaurant so I knew something was up." He paused and glanced sideways again. "I, ah, I wasn't expecting to hear…" His voice trailed off.

"What, to hear she was expecting?" Steve chortled, unable to resist the horrible pun.

If it was possible to slump in frustration while continuing to walk, Mike Stone accomplished it. Laughing, Steve took a step away from him, anticipating a swat or at least a sideways body slam, but Mike just groaned in exasperation, realizing he had opened this particular door himself.

"So, ah, is she taking it as well as you are?" There was a tinge of humour in the question but they both acknowledged the serious nature of the query.

Mike hesitated before answering. "She didn't know how she felt either, she was still in shock. So we, ah, we really just spent the rest of the evening trying to, you know, wrap our heads around it, as the kids would say." He snorted and shook his head again. "I don't think we succeeded…"

They walked in silence for several seconds then Mike continued, "So anyway, we finally decided to call it a night." He chuckled suddenly and glanced at his companion. "To be perfectly honest, I don't even remember driving home, but I must have… and the next thing I knew you were standing in my bedroom. I don't know where the night went, I really don't."

"So, you, ah, both of you, you didn't…you know, discuss…?"

Mike stopped and turned to face the younger man. He knew what his partner was trying to say. "Steve, we're both Catholic. We don't have too many options here."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two**

"It, ah…" Steve cleared his throat, unsure of the reaction his next question was going to illicit, "I mean, you're sure it's, ah, it's your...?" He let the rest of the question hang.

Mike stopped walking and turned to him, a sudden anger burning in his eyes; Steve met the stare evenly and held his breath. After several tense seconds, the older man relaxed, nodding slightly and looking away. "Yeah," he said quietly, "it's mine… there's no doubt about that." He cleared his throat self-consciously, then turned away and began to walk along the asphalt path once again.

With a warm smile, Steve fell into step beside him. Chuckling lightly, bumping into the older man gently to knock him slightly off-balance, he said quietly, "I didn't know you had it in you."

Mike shot him a look but his eyes were bright and a grin threatened to appear. He coughed to cover his laugh then bit his upper lip. There was almost a swagger in his next few steps, until the reality sunk in again and he sighed. "Steve, I'm too old to have another kid. And so's Irene. And she's the one that said that last night."

Nodding, Steve took his hand out of his pocket and ran it up his partner's back again, gripping his shoulder. He could feel the tension and wished he could do more than just offer a sympathetic ear. "How far along is she?"

"They think six to seven weeks. It's, ah, it's still not a viable foetus yet, but her doctor said he doesn't think she'd have any trouble carrying it to term."

They walked in silence for another few seconds.

"Are you going to tell Jeannie?"

Mike took a deep breath. "That's something else I've been thinking about." He chuckled dryly. "She's gonna be thrilled to bits, I just know it. She'll think it's… the best thing ever."

"Of course she will," Steve laughed, tightening his grip. "It kinda is pretty special, you know…" He looked at his partner's profile, grinning proudly. Mike didn't look up but Steve could see the wonder and bafflement still warring for pride of place on his features.

"So, ah, so what happens now?" Steve asked after they had walked a little further, releasing his grip and slipping his hand back into his pocket.

Mike took another deep breath. "Now? Well, now I guess Irene and I get together and talk this out. I told her I'd call her later today. We're gonna meet up tonight again, and try to figure out the rest of our lives, I guess…"

Steve eyed him worriedly. There was a world weariness in the older man's voice and a heaviness to his step that was troubling, and the younger man knew that there was nothing else he could do. This was one predicament Mike was going to have to work through on his own.

# # # # #

They had arranged for Mike to go to her apartment for dinner. Not wanting to confide in anyone else just yet, she needed to have something to do to keep her thoughts from veering off in all kinds of unwanted directions. Deciding on the menu, then being forced to leave her apartment to buy the necessary ingredients turned out to be a godsend; for several minutes at a stretch, her mind was relieved of the burden of trying to come to grips with a future she had never anticipated.

Focused on her career, she hadn't become a great cook but had, over the years, perfected a lasagna that she knew Mike loved. From scratch she also knew it would take her most of the day shopping, preparing and cooking, and she did it all with a gusto that belied the nervous tension that continued to bubble just below the surface. Her trembling hand when she reached out to give the bills to the grocery store cashier was the only betrayal of her inner turmoil.

It was shortly before 5 p.m. when there was a discreet knock on her front door, a knock she recognized instantly. Taking a deep steadying breath, she removed the apron and tossed it on the kitchen counter before crossing to the door. She hesitated a split second before turning the knob and swinging the door open.

Mike, in a suit and fedora but almost casual without his vest and tie, met her eyes with a warm half-grin. He held up a bottle of red wine and a bottle of Welch's grape juice. "Your choice."

Irene stared at him for a long second, then burst into laughter, took a step forward and wrapped her arms around him. Laughing as well, he did his best to hug her back, both suddenly relieved with the knowledge that they were going to approach this mutual dilemma together. As her fingers dug into his back, tears sprung to her eyes and she held onto him as if her life depended on it.

# # # # #

Steve stepped off the bottom step and crossed the sidewalk towards the idling tan sedan. He settled onto the seat and closed the door before looking over at his partner. Mike shifted into Drive and pulled the LTD away from the curb. Steve studied his partner's profile, his attempt at discretion losing the battle with his curiosity. "So?" he asked finally.

"Humh?" Mike grunted, his eyebrows rising, pretending, the younger man knew, to be ignorant of the meaning behind the two-letter inquiry.

"You said you and Irene were going to talk last night. Soooo….?"

"Oh that," Mike acknowledged with a slight smile, continuing to stare through the windshield as he drove.

"Yeah, that."

"Ah, well, ah, yeah, we talked. Quite a lot actually." He clammed up again, and Steve wasn't sure if it was because he really didn't want to disclose the results of their discussion, or he was just teasing. He took a gamble that it was the latter.

"And….?"

Mike glanced at him, expressionless, then a small smile appeared. He made a right turn, letting the steering wheel slide through his hands as the car straightened itself out, and the smile got a little wider. "You're just dying to find out, aren't you? I'm so glad you have a little more patience in the interrogation room."

"Come on, spill. If this was a murder mystery, I'd've turned to the last page by now."

Mike's chuckle faded away, his smile with it. "Well, we really didn't come to any decisions, we just kinda, you know, talked over our options."

"I thought you said you didn't have many options, you both being Catholic and all that…"

"Yeah, well, a lot of that sort went by the boards when we started, you know… without the benefit of… you know…."

"Started having sex?"

Mike's glare shot across the front seat; Steve was chuckling silently behind his firmly bitten lips. Their stares held for so long that Steve eventually nodded toward the windshield. "You might want to watch where you're going," he suggested calmly and swallowed a grin as Mike's head snapped forward again and the car rocked gently as he corrected its path.

Suddenly Mike chuckled. "I guess you're right, about the, ah, you know, having um, you know… um, intimate relations…"

"You mean sex?"

Mike snapped his jaw closed and cleared his throat in frustration, but the smile reappeared once more. "Yeah, that…" He laughed and Steve joined him. "I mean, my god, I've been a widower for over six years now. I didn't turn into a monk."

"No, I ah, I didn't think you did," Steve offered quietly, nodding and trying not to laugh.

"So, ah, so we've sorta 'sinned in the eyes of the church' already, I guess you could say. But, buddy boy, terminating a pregnancy… wow, that's another thing altogether."

Mike had pulled the car into the Hall of Justice parking lot and was just easing it into a space near the back entrance. He shut the engine off then turned in the seat to face his partner. "We did do a lot of talking last night, but we didn't come to any decisions. There's still a lot we have to think about. I mean, Irene's still got a lot of career ahead of her, and a baby would most probably put an end to all that."

"Is she pro-life or pro-choice?"

"You know, I never really knew before last night. It had never occurred to me to ask but knowing she was Catholic, I guess I just assumed she was pro-life." Mike looked down and a small smile played over his lips. "Turns out I was wrong." He took a deep breath and his gaze seemed far away. Steve waited. Mike looked up, met his eyes and smiled. "I told her I would leave that decision totally up to her – it's her life and it's her body. I have no say in what she does with either of them."

Steve smiled at his partner warmly. "That sounds an awful lot like what a pro-choicer would say, don't you think?" he ventured carefully.

"It's the twentieth century, Steve, and I have a 22-year-old daughter. I don't think I have any right to tell her, or any woman, what they can or cannot do with their body, no matter what religion they are. Or what religion I am, for that matter." He frowned. "Does that make me a hypocrite?"

"Not at all. But I do think it makes you a very rare man, Michael Stone, very rare indeed." Steve's voice was low and laced with an awed respect. He reached across the front seat and squeezed the older man's forearm. "I think we better get inside before they think we're taking today off too."

# # # # #

Mike put the cup down on the coffee table then crossed to the bookcase, getting down on his hands and knees to crawl behind the armchair so he could access the bottom shelf. It didn't take long to find what he was looking for and he got to his feet carefully so as not to disturb the layer of dust that was clinging to the cover of the large photo album. Making a brief trip into the kitchen to wipe the dust off, he returned to the living room, sat in the middle of the sofa and, after taking a sip of his coffee, put his feet on the table and rested the book in his lap.

He laid both hands lightly on the beige leather cover and took a deep breath. He hadn't opened any of the Stone family photo albums since shortly after his wife's death. Back then he would sit with Jeannie on this very couch and they would go through the pictures one by one, wanting to remember how she looked, what her voice sounded like. But that was a long time ago.

He opened the front cover and caught his breath. The 8x10 colour print that met his eyes was the first photo ever taken of his wife with their brand new daughter. And all the memories of that unforgettable day came flooding back.

As he made his way slowly through the album, which chronicled Jeannie's first two years, he relived his own transformation, from a man who at one time had never wanted children to a man who now couldn't conceive of his life without his beloved child. Of all the things he had accomplished in his life, the special bond he continued to share with his beautiful, intelligent and popular daughter would always be the one which was the deepest and of which he was the most proud.

The coffee was stone cold by the time he closed the album; he chuckled to himself for having lost track of the time. He was about to get to his feet when he stopped and sat back again, suddenly aware that what he wanted most right now was the opportunity to bring another life into the world, another life he could share and nurture.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Three**

"What are you thinking about?" Irene asked as she put the steaming mugs of coffee on the coffee table then sat on the couch beside him.

With a loving smile, Mike raised his right arm and she snuggled in beside him, drawing her legs up and leaning her head against his shoulder as he pulled her close. He kissed her hair. "Well, truth be told, I've been thinking about last week…" He paused and chuckled. "You remember last week, right? When our lives were, you know, normal and boring and –"

"Boring?" Her head came up slightly and he froze. "What, you think our lives are boring?"

"Well, not boring," Mike backtracked with a laugh, "poor choice of words. Let's say, ah, routine. Is that better?"

With a quick chuckle, she nodded and put her head back down on his shoulder. "Better. Thank you."

"Okay, so… routine. I would've bet you a million bucks that neither one of us ever thought we'd be in the, ah… shall I say, _situation_ we're in right now. You agree with me on that, right?" He felt her nod, then she began to shake and he realized she was chuckling. "What?" he asked with a short laugh of his own.

She pulled back and looked up at him, her eyes bright and filled with an unexpected joy. "Who'd've thought there was so much life in us old dogs, right?" With a full-throated laugh, she threw her arm across his chest and pulled him into a tight embrace.

# # # # #

The windshield wipers were having a hard time keeping up with the torrential downpour, but the dismal weather didn't seem to be putting any kind of damper on the mood of the man behind the wheel of the tan LTD.

Steve shot another glance across the front seat. He knew Mike and Irene had spent the previous evening together again and once more he was curious to know if they had reached a decision. And once more his partner seemed reluctant to be forthcoming, reveling in the knowledge that he could extend the torture just a little longer each time before the younger man broke down and implored him to share.

"So you and Irene spent the evening together again last night?"

"Umh-humh." Mike kept his eyes on the road.

"What, you made her cook again?"

"No, smarty, we ordered in. Chinese, from the Mandarin – you ever been there, in Ghirardelli Square? Oh, it's amazing. Bring one of your dates there, you'll impress the hell out of them –"

"Mike, you're stalling…"

The older man glanced over, eyebrows on the rise. "I am? Stalling about what?"

With a feigned disingenuousness, he was having a hard time keeping a straight face and Steve chuckled.

"You know full well what I'm talking about."

"Oh, you mean the, ah, the… Irene and me and the…" Mike's voice died out and he cleared his throat. He suddenly seemed to lose the whimsy and Steve could see the cloud of melancholy that transformed his features. His heart skipped a beat and he braced for whatever news the older man was about to impart.

"Yeah, well, I guess you should be the first to know." Mike swallowed heavily and shot a brief, sad look across the seat. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and blinked several times; the metronome-like slap of the wipers and the dull thudding of the rain against the windows was the only sound for several long seconds.

Mike looked across the front seat then cleared his throat. "Well, ah," he said quietly and slowly, "I guess I'm gonna be a father again." He glanced over once more, his eyebrows rising, and he began to chuckle.

Steve stared at him, wide-eyed, unmoving, then his face broke into an ecstatic grin and he laughed. As Mike nodded, continuing to chuckle, Steve reached out and placed a hand on his partner's forearm and squeezed. "Wow, um, I mean, congratulations, I mean it. I'm, ah, I'm speechless. I think it's amazing… and… I'm so happy for you, for you both, I really am."

Mike grinned at him before quickly looking back at the road. "Thanks, buddy boy, that means a lot, it really does." His face suddenly turned serious. "But this has to stay between us for now, right? Irene and I don't want anybody to know, well, other than you, until after the first trimester, you know, just in case?"

Steve nodded, continuing to grin. "You got it, not a problem. So, are you gonna call Jeannie?"

They were approaching the Harrison Street entrance to the Hall of Justice parking lot.

"Ah, yeah," Mike said tentatively as he turned the LTD into the lot, "but just not right away. I want to make sure I have everything settled in my own mind before I drop this little surprise onto her lap. So I'm thinking maybe in a week or so. Or I might even wait till Christmas – it's only a couple a months away. Telling her face to face might be a lot easier than trying to do it over the phone."

He pulled the sedan into a spot, shifted into Park and turned the key, then looked across the front seat at his still beaming partner. "Do me a favour, will ya? Wipe that Cheshire cat grin off your face before we get upstairs. A poker face you have not, and I'd rather we didn't have to fend off a lot of prying questions in the next few weeks. Both Irene and I want to announce this at the appropriate time and in the appropriate manner, do you understand?"

The grin showing no sign of disappearing anytime soon, Steve stared at his partner and nodded. "You got it."

With a frustrated sigh as he turned up his overcoat collar, bracing for the continuing downpour, Mike got out of the car and started quickly towards the gray building. His partner fell into step beside him. When they reached the glass door, Mike opened it and took a step back to allow the younger man to enter before him. They both took off their overcoats and shook them out before starting down the corridor towards the lobby.

With an obvious clearing of his throat, the younger man said quietly, "You know you're going to have to make a legitimate woman out of her, you realize?"

Mike shot him a quick look. "She's already – legitimately – a woman, in case you didn't notice."

"Ha ha," the younger man retorted dryly. "You know what I'm talking about. Da Da Ta-Da," he hummed 'The Wedding March', trying not to chuckle.

"Oh, very subtle. Well, smarty, as a matter of fact, we _did_ discuss that last night as well."

"And?" Steve prompted when his partner fell silent as they turned a corner, continuing down the narrow corridor towards the lobby.

"And you're gonna have to go rent that Best Man tuxedo sometime in the spring. We haven't set a date yet." He turned to the younger man with a grin. "So, now are you happy?"

A grin lighting his face, Steve nodded enthusiastically and slapped the older man's back. Then he stopped, just before they entered the busy lobby. Frowning suddenly, Mike halted and turned back, tilting his head in confusion.

"Look, Mike," Steve said, his tone soft and serious, "I know I've been yanking your chain for the past couple of days, but… but I'm really happy for you, I really am. For you _and_ Irene. I think it's amazing what's happening, I really do. And it couldn't happen to a better couple, absolutely. You two are gonna make dynamite parents, I mean that."

Grinning broadly, Steve closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around his taller partner. With a self-conscious chuckle, Mike returned the hug.

# # # # #

Mike leaned back in his office chair and stretched. He had been hunched over his desk reading reports for the past couple of hours and he felt stiff and tired. He glanced at his watch. "Oh, jeez, I gotta get out of here," he mumbled to himself as he took off his glasses and tossed them on the desk as he got to his feet, opening the top right side drawer, taking out the .38 and snapping it onto his belt.

Grabbing his jacket from the coat rack, he started to slip it on as he stepped into the doorway of his office. "Steve, I gotta go. Lost track of time and I'm gonna be late if I don't get out of here right now."

The younger man, his sleeves rolled up and tie loosened, glanced up from the file he was reading and smiled. "Irene not too thrilled when you're late, I take it?"

"Well, after we missed Act 1 the last time, she made me promise we'd get there on time tonight. Those season's tickets are not cheap, you know." He had grabbed his fedora and was starting across the bullpen. "I'll, ah, I'll make my own way in tomorrow. We're having a bite to eat _after_ the show and it's at least three hours long, so god only knows when I'll get home tonight." The last words faded away as he was already out the door.

Chuckling, Steve looked up at Haseejian, who was watching the exchange from a nearby desk.

"Where's he going?" the Armenian sergeant asked, brow furrowed.

"He and Irene have season's tickets to the SFO."

"The orchestra?"

"The opera company." He looked back down at the file, turning a page, but could feel Haseejian's eyes boring a hole in the back of his neck. He looked back up with smirk. "Yeah, Mike goes to the opera. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with him."

"Uh, no… no, not at all." Chuckling, Haseejian looked back down to reports on his desk. "Hunh, Mike goes to the opera… who'd thought it?"

# # # # #

"You know, if we'd have gotten here sooner, we could have parked closer." Irene was leading the way down Van Ness, Mike a few steps behind. He had paused for a second to look at his watch, having to twist his wrist to catch the glow from the streetlamp so he could see the face: 1:15.

"I told you I was sorry, I lost track of time." He took a couple of quick steps to catch up. "Good thing I told Steve I'd make my own way in tomorrow," he chuckled, slipping an arm around her waist. "But you have to admit, that was a great performance and an even better dinner, don't you agree?"

Irene slipped her arm through his and leaned into him as they continued down the deserted street. "I'm just glad we finally got to hear Renata Scotto. My god, what a voice. And what a presence."

"You know," Mike said thoughtfully, but she could hear the playfulness in the words, "sometimes I wish I knew Italian so I could understand what they were singing about."

Laughing, she hugged his arm a little tighter. "I think you'd just be disappointed. I have a feeling they're singing things like, _"I love you, do you love me?; I think he's cute, I think she's gorgeous; what's for dinner? Risotto and beans!"_ I think we're better off not knowing."

They both laughed as they turned the corner onto Eddy; they were only a couple of blocks from his car. Mike looked down, taking a half step then stopping. "Damn, it did it again."

Irene let go of his arm. "What, your shoelace?"

"Yeah, damn thing. I hate these new round laces, they never seem to stay done up." He began to kneel down. She continued walking down the street.

"Why don't you double-knot them?" she called over her shoulder.

"Yeah, sure, and look like a two-year-old? I'll just pick myself up a new pair of flat laces tomorrow." He finished with the untied shoe and shifted position so he could retie the other one. He stood back up, leaning forward to brush the grit from the sidewalk off the knees of his dress pants. "There, done." Rubbing his hands together, he looked down the block in her direction, but the street was deserted. He froze mid-motion. "Irene!" he called out, pausing to listen.

When there was no response, he started down the dark street, his eyes darting back and forth, straining to hear any unusual sounds. There was nothing but the normal sights and sounds of a big city at night. He took a few more quick steps and called her name a little louder.

Off to his left was a small alley between two brick buildings. It was pitch-black but in the spill from the street he could make out a dumpster on the right. He was just about to call her name again when he heard a noise from deep within the recesses of the alley and he froze. His hand went automatically to his right hip but found only air; his .38 was back at home, in a drawer in his living room.

He took a quiet step deeper into the alley; the noise reached his ears again. It sounded like someone struggling. His heart beginning to pound in his ears, he took several more silent steps then hesitated, trying to locate the source in the inky blackness.

He started to take another step when he heard the unmistakable sound of a footfall behind him. He was just about to turn when a blinding white light exploded in his head and his limp body dropped heavily to the pavement.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Four**

The first thing she heard was the distant sound of a siren. As it faded away, it was replaced with the relentless drip, drip, drip of water hitting concrete. She smelled garbage and faeces, and the sickeningly sweet odour of urine.

Her head hurt and she was having trouble breathing. She tried to lick her lips but they were puffy and stung and all she could taste was blood. Her left eye felt swollen and when she tried to open them all she could see was an oppressive blackness. As her right eye focused she thought she could see stars but nothing else.

She attempted to take another deep breath but a burning pain in her right side stopped her mid-inhale. A groan escaped through her open lips. She felt the cold night air on her lower abdomen, and a sticky wetness between her legs. Raising her hand from the cold asphalt below her, she dragged it across her stomach; her skirt was pulled up.

Hoping to control the shaking that had begun to wrack her entire body, she attempted without much success to push the black wool skirt back down. Her breaths were coming in abbreviated sobs and the trembling was becoming more pronounced.

Trying to piece together what had happened, she realized that she had to get out of there or no-one would find her. But when she tried to think back, to remember where she was and why she was there, her traumatized brain wouldn't cooperate.

Holding her breath, she placed both hands on the ground and tried to push herself up. The pain in her side was so intense she almost blacked out, so she took a few seconds to get the throbbing under control then rolled onto her knees. Gasping for breath, she regrouped before attempting to stand. She looked around; there was nothing nearby that she could grab onto.

With a pain-laced sob, she pushed herself slowly and carefully to her feet, suddenly realizing she had no shoes. She tugged her skirt down into place as she looked around, trying to discern anything in the impenetrable dark. About fifty yards away she could see the street and the amber glow from the streetlights.

She took a step, gasping and wincing as her bare foot landed on something sharp. Wrapping her arms around herself, feeling hot tears sliding down her face, she slowly made her way up the alley.

Bit by bit, as if with each step, snippets of the past few hours suddenly reappeared in her memory … the opera, the late dinner, the walk to the car… Mike…

She gasped, a hand coming to her mouth. "Mike," she breathed, "Mike…."

She took another few steps but the street didn't seem to be getting any closer. She began to make out the shape of the dumpster on her left up ahead. She stumbled, lurching forward, but caught herself before she fell.

And that was when she saw him. He was lying on his side. With a strangled cry, she scrambled towards him and, ignoring the pain, dropped to her knees. She reached out and put both hands on him, one on his chest, one on his arm. He didn't move. "Mike," she whispered urgently, shaking him gently. There was still no response. She put both hands on his face and gasped again in relief. He was warm; he was still alive.

"Mike," she cried again, leaning closer. She froze and her eyes widened. She could see the streetlight reflecting off the large puddle of blood that had pooled under his head. "Mike… Mike…" She looked up towards the street once again, knowing she had to make it there, that she needed to get help for both of them as soon as she could.

Quickly and gently stroking his cheek, she struggled to her feet and continued her slow and painful progress. Her head was pounding and she knew she was rapidly losing strength but she also knew that she was their only hope right now.

She finally got to the sidewalk, staggering against the corner of the building in a last ditch attempt to stay on her feet. She looked up and down the street but there was nothing: no cars, no pedestrians, nothing. She sobbed, trying to draw in a lungful of air so she could yell. The pain was almost overwhelming but she did the best she could.

"Help! Someone please, I need help!"

Gasping again for air, the pain in her right side almost paralyzing, she started to slide down the wall to the sidewalk. She hung her head, the tears starting to come faster. There were no houses or apartments on this street, just businesses that were closed for the night. And besides, it was late November and no-one would have their windows open overnight, she knew; it was too cold. Nobody would hear her.

She sat on the cold sidewalk, sobbing, glancing back down the alley, unable to see the man she loved laying motionless on the cold ground. Taking a deep breath, steeling herself and using the wall, she dragged herself back to her feet and started down what she remembered now was Eddy Street. If she got back to Van Ness, she knew, there would be more traffic, even at this early hour.

She had stumbled several yards, using the building for support, when she heard a car turning onto Eddy from behind, its headlights suddenly illuminating the street around her. She pushed herself away from the wall and turned, stumbling towards the curb, raising her arms.

The headlights blinded her as she stepped off the curb into the street, waving her arms. "Stop… please stop!" she yelled as loudly as she could. The car slammed to a halt in front of her and she put one hand to her eyes, lowering her head. She heard both doors open but couldn't see anything in the bright light.

"Ma'am, are you all right?" she heard a young male voice as the passenger approached her. She turned in his direction and almost fell into his arms; he was wearing the dark blue uniform of the SFPD.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," she breathed as she reached out to grab his arms. "I… I need help…"

"Ma'am," the young cop said again, "Ma'am, we're gonna call you an ambulance, okay?"

She began to nod vigorously. "Yes, yes… and you need to help my… Mike…" She turned her head to look back down the street, towards the alley. She saw the young cop's head turn in that direction as well.

"Someone else needs help?"

"Yes," she gasped, nodding, "my fiancé." She turned towards the other cop who had joined them at the front of the car.

He took a step towards her and put a hand on her upper arm. "Inspector Martin?" he asked tentatively, and she froze, her eyes widening. After a split second, she nodded, beginning to cry even harder.

The second cop looked at the first. "John, call for a couple of buses. And then tell dispatch that we need backup, we have an officer needs assistance."

As the first cop headed back to the cruiser, the second put both hands on her arms and started to lead her towards the curb. "Inspector Martin, I'm Sergeant Jackovich, I worked a robbery case with you about six months ago."

She crossed with him to the side of the road and allowed herself to be lowered to sit on the curb. Jackovich glanced over his shoulder. "John, get the blanket from the trunk!"

She grabbed his arm with surprising strength and looked into his eyes. "Sergeant, Lieutenant Stone… Mike… he's been hurt… he's in the alley…"

Nodding, Jackovich straightened up and started down the sidewalk, breaking into a jog, unsnapping his holster and putting his hand on the grip of the .38. "John, look after her!" he called out as he heard the distant wail of an approaching siren.

At the entrance to the alley he stopped, listening, unclipping the small flashlight from his belt and snapping it on. He slipped the revolver from the holster and held it up before taking a step deeper into the alley.

He played the beam of the flashlight over the walls and the dumpster then dropped it to the asphalt and froze. "Jesus Christ!" he breathed as he saw the body on the ground. Taking a quick step back onto the street, he turned his head towards the cruiser and yelled, "John, send that first ambulance down here as soon as it gets here!"

Holstering the revolver, Jackovich sprinted the few yards to where Mike lay, dropping to his knees, playing the light over the motionless body. The pool of blood under the lieutenant's head was unmistakable and frightening but there were no other obvious signs of injury. And he was breathing. Jackovich patted his arm. "You just, ah, just hang in there, Lieutenant. We got a bus coming." He hoped he sounded more optimistic than he felt.

An ambulance screamed around the corner from Van Ness onto Eddy, slowing when it approached the cruiser. Patrolman John Baker stood up from his kneeling position beside Irene at the curb and crossed to the driver's door quickly. She could see him gesture further down the road and the ambulance peeled away, squealing to a stop at the curb opposite the alley.

Two black-and-whites slid around the corner, lights and sirens, and slid to stops near the first cruiser. Four officers bailed out, two sprinting down the street towards the ambulance, the other two moving closer to Irene and Baker.

It all became a blur to Irene. What little energy she had had been fully depleted. She wanted to go back to the alley, to be with Mike, but she also knew he was in better hands than hers and he would be on the way to the hospital within seconds.

She was aware of the uniformed officers standing over her, of their encouraging word. And, as she pulled the warm blanket around her shoulders, she tried to become a police officer again, wanting to tell them what had happened, or rather what she could remember of what had happened.

But there was nothing… she remembered nothing. Her shaking became more pronounced and the tears, which had abated, flowed steadily again. She knew she had been assaulted, and she knew Mike was badly hurt, but she could remember nothing else.

She looked up as another siren announced the arrival of the second ambulance and suddenly more people were standing over her. Hands gently gripped her upper arms and she was lifted slowly and carefully to her feet. A gurney had been wheeled close by and she was turned slowly and pushed down to sit on it. A soothing voice asked her to lie down and she complied, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, then wincing at the pain it caused.

The gurney was elevated and it began to roll towards the open doors of the waiting ambulance. She turned her head, trying to look past the attendant to the first ambulance, still parked near the alley. There was no sign of movement around it; by rights, she figured, it should have left by now, should have been transporting Mike to the hospital _. Why hadn't they gone?_ she thought desperately, suddenly terrified. _What's wrong?_

The gurney's legs folded up as it was pushed into the ambulance and the attendant stepped in, sitting nearby. The doors slammed shut and she felt the tires begin to turn, heard the siren snap back on.

She closed her eyes, her tears continuing to fall.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Five**

Jackovich stood up and took a step back as the ambulance attendants approached. "What have we got here?" one of them asked.

"Head wound… bad from what I can see."

The uniformed sergeant kept his flashlight beam on Mike's head as the medics knelt down on either side of the unmoving detective. Behind his patient, the older one took a thin latex glove out of his pocket and put it on his right hand then, producing his own flashlight and snapping it on, leaned closer and gently raised the lieutenant's head. "It doesn't look like a gunshot," he said quietly then looked up at his partner and nodded. The second medic stood and ran back up the alley towards the ambulance.

"Here, help me roll him onto his back," the first medic said, glancing up at Jackovich.

As he put the flashlight in his mouth and knelt down again, Jackovich glanced at the medic's nametag, barely visible in the dim light: Johnson. "Sure… what do you need me to do?"

"I'll hold his head and roll him towards me. I want you to make sure his other arm isn't caught underneath him and straighten his legs out, okay? He needs to be flat."

Swallowing hard and nodding, Jackovich put one hand on Mike's hip, the other on the arm pinned beneath his body. Johnson nodded at him and they gently rolled the unconscious man onto his back, the medic keeping his hand over the wound, holding the head up off the asphalt.

The second medic had returned with the gurney and a small duffle bag, which he dropped to the ground and unzipped rapidly. Silently, he handed over a pressure dressing and a wide roll of gauze. Rapidly and efficiently, within seconds they had the lieutenant's head bandaged and a brace around his neck and, with the help of Jackovich and another unie, were lifting him onto the gurney and heading back to the ambulance.

As they slid the stretcher through the open doors, Johnson glanced back at Jackovich. "We're taking him to St. Mary's. I know the General is closer but their CT scanner is on the fritz." He got in beside the gurney, reaching to close the doors as his partner jogged to the driver's side and got behind the wheel.

Jackovich helped slam the back doors then slapped the side of the ambulance. The siren snapped on as it started away. The sergeant turned back to the group of officers that was getting bigger by the minute as more and more units arrived.

"All right," he yelled, "I want this entire block sealed off! Someone get the lab boys down here now, I don't care who you have to wake up! We're gonna need lights, the big ones, so somebody get in touch with someone about that! And somebody better call Olsen and Redding! It's their people involved here so they should know asap!"

As the others ran off in different directions to do his bidding, Jackovich looked back towards the alley. "Damn it," he swore softly.

# # # # #

The shrill ring cut through the silence and he jerked awake, briefly disoriented, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. Instinctively his right hand shot out to grab the receiver to stop the clamor, his eyes snapping automatically to the red LED readout on his clock/radio. 4:18.

"Oh god," he moaned as he dragged the receiver closer to his ear, cleared his throat then said dryly, "This had better be good, Mike -"

"Steve?" the urgent voice came through the headset and he instantly knew it wasn't his partner. He sat up quickly, wide awake.

"Rudy?"

"Steve, get yourself over to St. Mary's. Mike's been hurt."

"Hurt? What happened?" The words were quick and breathless.

"Mike and Irene, they were attacked last night. I don't know any of the details yet, except it's pretty bad. I'm heading to St. Mary's myself. Get there as soon as you can."

There was a click on the other end of the line and it went dead. Steve stared at the receiver in his hand as if it could tell him more, then slammed it down on the cradle and jumped to his feet, scrambling to find the clothes he had tossed aside when he'd crawled into bed several hours earlier.

In a daze, he pulled his pants and shirt on, starting down the stairs and grabbing his car keys from the table by the door and his jacket from the sofa as he stepped into his shoes, not even bothering with socks.

The Porsche squealed away from the curb. He tried to concentrate on his driving, on the quickest route to St. Mary's, but he couldn't marshal his thoughts. _Attacked?,_ he thought. _That doesn't make any sense… They went to the opera last night. How in the hell could they have been attacked?_

Not waiting for red lights to change and ignoring stop signs, the Porsche shot through the deserted city. If he was going to be pulled over, so be it; at the moment he just didn't care.

# # # # #

The automatic glass doors opened and Steve Keller jogged into Emergency, his eyes raking the almost deserted entrance, looking for a familiar face. There were no uniforms present and no one he recognized. Anxiously, he strode to the desk and a middle-aged, dark-haired nurse looked up at his arrival. He fished the I.D. out of his jacket pocket, suddenly relieved he had remembered to bring it with him, and held it up for her to see.

"I'm here about Lieutenant Michael Stone, I was told he was just brought here," he said breathlessly and she nodded.

"Yes," the nurse nodded, "Lieutenant Stone was brought in about an hour ago. I'm afraid I have no news about his condition yet. If you'd like to wait in the waiting room, I'll have someone come out to speak to you when they have some news." She made note of his name on a pad on the counter.

Sliding the I.D. back into his pocket, Steve nodded almost absent-mindedly. "Ah, yeah, yeah, that'd be great, thanks." Still nodding, he backed away from the desk and looked around, trying to get his bearings. The nurse pointed to his right and smiled sympathetically, and he turned in that direction as if in a daze.

There were several people in the waiting room, sleeping or reading magazines, but no-one he knew and, again, no uniforms. Glancing back toward the reception area he stepped to the nearest chair and sat heavily, looking around. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, dropped his head into his hands and closed his eyes.

# # # # #

He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting there, half-aware of the life swirling around him, in his own world, when he felt a hand drop onto his shoulder and he looked up to see Captain Rudy Olsen lowering himself onto the chair beside him.

"Sorry – I got here as fast as I could. There were a lot of people I needed to talk to and others to notify. Have you heard anything?" the older man asked anxiously.

Steve shook his head. "No. Rudy, what's going on? What did you mean, Mike and Irene were attacked?"

Swallowing hard and nodding, Rudy leaned forward, trying to keep his voice low so as not to disturb the others in the waiting room, who were all, he assumed, probably living through their own personal nightmares.

"I don't have many details yet – hell, I don't think anybody does – but it looks like they were attacked in an alley off Eddy walking to their car last night after the opera. From what we can tell right now, Mike was hit over the head and…ah… Irene…" He sighed heavily and looked away. "Steve, Irene was raped."

The younger man's eyes widened and he held his breath for a couple of seconds. "She was raped?" he repeated slowly, trying to keep his voice level.

Staring into the suddenly haunted green eyes, Olsen nodded. "She's at the General. She's pretty beaten up too. Derek is heading over there right now with Bob." Captain Derek Redding was Olsen's counterpart in Robbery; Sergeant Bob Wilson was Irene's partner. Olsen gripped the younger man's forearm. "Mike was unconscious when they found him, with a large gash on the back of his head. He lost a lot of blood."

"Inspector Keller?"

Both detectives looked up to see a tall black-haired doctor standing at the far entrance, a clipboard in his hand. He was scanning the room, his eyes settling on Steve and Olsen when their heads came up.

"Yes," Steve said quickly, getting to his feet and almost jogging across the room, Olsen close on his heels.

The doctor smiled and nodded, looking down at the clipboard. "Ah, you're here for Lieutenant Stone?"

"Yes," they answered simultaneously.

Olsen, with a quick glance at Steve, smiled briefly. "I'm Captain Olsen, the lieutenant's boss, so-to-speak. Steve here's his partner."

Nodding curtly, the doctor started to turn back down the corridor, bringing them along with a cock of his head. "Doctor Murphy, I'm the resident neurologist. I've been looking after the Lieutenant since he was brought in." He stopped a few feet further down the corridor and both detectives realized he just wanted to be out of earshot of the others in the waiting room. "Are you aware at all of the Lieutenant's condition?" he asked, knowing that Mike had arrived at Emergency unaccompanied.

"We just know he was hit over the head and that he was unconscious when they found him," Olsen spoke for them both.

"Yes, ah, the Lieutenant no doubt received a very heavy blow to the back of his head. He sustained a hairline skull fracture of the parietal bone – in the area right here," he said, touching the back of Steve's head just behind his right ear. "He also has what we call a Grade Three concussion, which is, unfortunately, the worst kind but the CT scan shows no sign of any bleeding into his brain right now, which is a good thing. However, he is still unconscious. We have no way of knowing as yet how long he's been out because no one seems to know when he was hit, but my estimation would be several hours."

Steve glanced at Olsen, and Murphy could see the worry in both pairs of eyes.

"He also sustained a sizeable laceration which, because of the location, bled a lot. We actually had to give him almost a pint of blood when he first came in and he now has twelve stitches in his scalp."

"Is he going to be okay?" Steve asked tentatively.

Murphy took a deep breath and smiled slightly. "Well, that all depends on when he wakes up but as of right now, his prognosis is good. Of course that could change for any number of reasons, but the fracture is not depressed, so no surgery is required. If he seems okay when he wakes up, we'll keep him here for a few more days to make sure he doesn't develop a brain bleed, and if that doesn't happen, you'll be able to take him home."

"And after that?" Olsen asked.

The doctor smiled. "After that, he'll have to take it easy for several weeks, and I mean real easy, like staying in bed and getting lots of rest, day _and_ night, but there shouldn't be any permanent afteraffects and he should be able to go back to work in a couple of months with no complications."

They took a few seconds to digest the information that had just been dispensed then Steve asked quietly. "Is there any way I could see him?"

Murphy looked at him sympathetically. "He's in ICU and will be until after he wakes up. Hospital rules dictate that only immediate family is allowed in, but, ah…"

"He's a widower. His daughter is at university in Arizona. I'm gonna call her later on this morning," Steve explained quietly.

"Look, ah," Murphy said softly, "there's still a couple of things I want to do for him, and to him. Give me about a half hour and I'll get you in to see him, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks… thanks, that'd be great," Steve responded, looking away and nodding.

"All right, I'll come and get you. Until then, take it easy, okay, he's gonna be all right." With a warm smile and confident nod, Murphy strode back down the corridor and disappeared through the double doors.

Taking a deep breath, Olsen turned to his young colleague. "Listen, ah, Steve, ah, I want to get over to Eddy, see if they've come up with anything yet. You, ah, you hang in here and get in to see Mike and I'll get back here as soon as I can, okay?"

Steve nodded as they began to walk back to the waiting area. Slapping the younger man on the back, Olsen continued through the quiet room toward the outer doors as Steve dropped heavily onto one of the naugahyde couches, lowering his head into his hands.

How quickly joy can turn to sorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Six**

She lay on her left side, curled almost into a foetal position, wearing a hospital gown and covered with a flannel blanket, on the gurney in the Emergency Room; the pale blue curtains blocked her from prying eyes. In the hours since she'd been admitted, she had been photographed three times - on her arrival, after her clothes had been removed and again after she had been 'cleaned up'; her clothes had been bagged and taken away; her cuts and bruises had been examined and administered to; she was swabbed for fluids; the debris under her fingernails had been collected; she was x-rayed for her rib and facial injuries; and had talked to a lieutenant and a sergeant, both of whom she knew, who specialized in sex crimes.

But not once had she made eye contact with anyone. It was something she just could not do.

Other than that, she had done everything that they had asked of her and told them everything she could remember, through the fog of pain and shock, unable to stop the trembling that continued to wrack her entire body.

She had asked many times about Mike, about how he was, where he was, but she could get no information in return. Nobody seemed to know what was going on.

In addition to the numerous cuts and bruises on her face, neck, feet, hands, and arms, she had three cracked ribs and severe bruising to her lower abdomen and back. Her ribs had been taped and she had been given painkillers. She was informed that she was going to be admitted and observed for a couple of days, as a precaution.

And she was told that she had been raped.

They had been gentle and kind and had spoken to her in soft, soothing tones, but none of it seemed to help. There was a despair growing deep inside that she couldn't fight, a thick black inevitability that seemed to be seeping into her soul.

Tears continued to course silently from her red-rimmed eyes and soak the pillowcase under her head.

# # # # #

The uniformed officer took a step back to allow Olsen's green sedan to slide past the cruisers blocking the entrance to Eddy at Van Ness. Several other police cars, marked and unmarked, and a black van littered the street. Two large floodlights had been set up on the sidewalk, facing the alley, their thick cables snaking down the street and through the front door of a nearby restaurant.

Getting out of the Galaxie, Olsen picked his way through the abandoned vehicles to the sidewalk, making grim eye contact with several officers before approaching a tall blond-haired older man in a black suit. Lieutenant John Dolan glanced over briefly as Olsen joined him then returned his stare into the alley.

"John," Olsen acknowledged, taking in the scene before him. A photographer and two coverall-clad lab technicians were amongst several uniformed and plainclothes officers scouring the alley. "Have they come up with anything?"

Dolan took a deep, frustrated breath. "Not a hell of a lot. We found Irene's purse and Mike's wallet. Any money they had is missing but the credit cards were left, for some reason. Irene's shoes were found over there," he pointed to the far end of the alley. His arm dropped slightly as he redirected Olsen's gaze. There was a dark stain on the asphalt closer to where they stood. "That's where Mike was lying," Dolan said softly, and Olsen caught his breath. He knew the stain was blood.

Dolan turned to a uniformed officer standing nearby. "Pete, you got the, uh…?"

Nodding, the unie crossed to the open back doors of the black van and returned with a long plastic bag. As he handed it to Dolan, Olsen could see it was a 2x4, about three feet long. Holding it towards the Homicide captain, Dolan said quietly, "This was found in the dumpster." Olsen's eyes fell on the disturbing sight of blood standing out starkly against the blond wood. "We're pretty sure this is what they used on Mike."

"God damn it," Olsen breathed softly, looking down. After several silent seconds, he looked up again. "So, what do you think went down here?"

Dolan took a deep breath. "Well, if you're asking if I think they were targeted, I really don't think so. Neither of them had their badge or I.D. on them, unless they were taken, but I can't see that happening; I have a feeling it was just a crime of opportunity and Irene and Mike just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"But how did it go down, do you think? I mean, they're both more than capable of taking someone out, hand to hand… so, what? So there had to be more than one perp, right? Did Mike and Irene get separated? Were there more than two perps? Were they armed? If they were, why not shoot Mike instead of hitting him with a 2x4, which they probably found in the alley anyway?" Olsen paused and inhaled loudly, looking around. "It just doesn't make any sense."

"Well, I guess we're just gonna have to wait till we can talk to them." Dolan glanced at his colleague. "How's Mike doing, by the way? Is he awake yet?"

Olsen shook his head. "Not when I left." He sighed heavily again. "Look, ah, I can't do anything here, I'm gonna head over to the General, see how Irene's doing…"

Squeezing Dolan's arm in support, Olsen turned wearily and started back towards the green Galaxie.

# # # # #

The phone rang three times before the receiver was picked up.

"Hello," came the bright young female voice.

"Ah, yeah, ah, hi, Jeannie," Steve said quickly, trying to keep the worry out of his tone.

The pause before she spoke again make his heart skip a beat – he knew the conclusion to which she had just jumped. "Steve…?" Her voice quivered.

"Mike's been hurt but he's gonna be okay, all right? I don't want you to panic." _Too late,_ he thought, but there was no other way he could've started this call and they both knew it.

"What happened?" she asked breathlessly, knowing that her father's partner would only be making this call if her father was unable to do so himself.

"Mike and Irene were attacked last night after the opera. He was knocked out and taken to the hospital. St. Mary's."

"Is he awake?"

Steve hesitated slightly and cleared his throat. "Ah, not yet, but the doctors've said it could be anytime. He's gonna be okay but it's gonna take awhile. I, ah, I think you should come home."

"Uhm, yeah… yeah, I will. Uh, Irene… was Irene hurt?"

"She was roughed up too, but I don't know how bad. She's at another hospital."

"Oh god, Steve… do, ah, do they know who did it? And why?" He could hear that she was starting to get a grip on her initial fear and returning into the clear thinking cop's daughter she had always been.

"Not that I know of, but I've been at the hospital all morning. Listen, ah, fly home, will ya? You have Mike's credit card?"

"Yeah, yeah, I do."

Trying to inject a bit of levity into the strained conversation, he said with an attempt at a chuckle, "I don't think Mike'll mind you spending the extra money." He was rewarded when he heard her short laugh over the line. "Listen, ah, Norm Haseejian's at the office; he knows what's going on. When you get your flight booked and you know what time you're going to arrive, call your Dad's office number and Norm'll answer. And he'll go and pick you up, okay?"

"Okay," she answered quietly, and he could tell she was trying to keep it together. There was a pause, then she began softly, "Steve –"

"I bet he'll be awake by the time you get here. So I'll let you go so you can book your flight and I'll see you when you get here, okay?"

"Okay," she breathed over the line, and he knew he had said just the right thing. "Tell him I love him, will you?"

Steve smiled warmly and closed his eyes. "You bet. See you soon." He heard her hang up then stared at the receiver for several seconds before putting it softly back on the cradle. He sat on the corner of the desk for a few more seconds then looked up; he was in the doctor's lounge. He had been allowed to use their phone as long as the call was billed to his home line; the hospital had a strict budget, he was told.

With a heavy sigh, he got to his feet and left the empty room, back out into the busy corridor. He took the stairs rather the elevator back to ICU, pushing through the double wooden doors and crossing to a cubicle at the far side of the large room.

Still swaddled in bandages, Mike's head was turned to the left so no pressure was being put on the laceration and fracture. An oxygen mask covered his mouth and nose. A blue hospital gown was draped over him, and an off-white flannelette blanket was pulled up to his mid-chest, his exposed arms at his sides.

Sitting back down on the tall stool that he had pulled up to the left side of the bed, Steve reached out to pick up Mike's hand once again. His fingers had just wrapped around his partner's when he heard a moan and froze, his eyes snapping to Mike's face.

The older man's eyes were squeezed tight and his head moved slightly. He groaned again and Steve could feel the warm fingers twitching under his hand. Maintaining contact, the younger man stood and leaned over the bed. "Mike…" he encouraged gently, "Mike… can you hear me?" With his free hand he reached for the call button and pushed it.

Mike moved his head again, raising his right arm slightly as if he was trying to reach for something. The arm fell back to the bed and he moaned once more, turning his head and almost gasping when the wound made contact with the pillow.

"Mike, Mike, lie still," Steve instructed urgently, "lie still. You hurt your head and if you move you're gonna make it worse… Take it easy, easy… lie still…"

The soothing tone seemed to sink in and the older man stopped moving. Steve increased the pressure on his hand, trying with touch alone to reassure the gravely injured man. After a few seconds of stillness, Mike opened his eyes.

# # # # #

She had been moved to a private room, and its much-needed solitude, but was still curled up on the large bed, unable to silence the voices in her head or the indistinct images that replayed themselves over and over in her distraught mind. It was like looking through the aperture of a pinhole camera; things seemed upside down and slightly out of focus.

Both her boss and her partner had stopped by to see her earlier, but she had asked the hospital staff to be left alone. She had already told the sex crimes cops what little she could remember; she didn't want the added pressure of having to make small talk with anyone else, no matter how benevolent their intentions.

She had finally been told that Mike had been taken to St. Mary's, still unconscious, but that was all she knew. She wasn't sure if they didn't know anything more, or if they were just protecting her from a devastating truth. And so the trembling continued, a mixture of fear and grief and pain, both real and imagined.

She had no idea how long she had been laying there, trying not to think, trying not to remember, when there was a discreet knock on the door and it opened slowly. Dr. Carlysle, who had been looking after her since she arrived, crossed to the bed. His smile was warm and concerned.

She watched warily as he approached, not moving. She was too sore and overwhelmed, and his heart sank. She looked like a frightened animal.

He perched on the stool he'd moved closer to the bed, not taking his eyes from her. "Ms. Martin, I need to ask you a couple of questions… I hope you don't mind."

If she had been feeling her usual self, she would have corrected him about her title. But she no longer cared. So she just closed her eyes and nodded.

His smile reappeared and he nodded back. "Good, thank you." He cleared his throat and his features sobered as he glanced down at the clipboard in his hands. "Ah, when you were brought in, there was, ah, there was a great deal bleeding from your, well, ah, let's just say there was more bleeding than we usually see in a sexual assault case." He cleared his throat again and dropped his gaze, suddenly unable to meet her unblinking stare.

Fidgeting slightly on the stool, Carlysle looked up again, straight into her eyes. "Ms. Martin, is there any possibility that you were pregnant?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Seven**

The blue eyes that stared into his were laced with pain and confusion. Beneath the oxygen mask, he could see the attempt to say his name. Smiling warmly, Steve leaned closer. "You're in the hospital. You were hit on the head and you've been unconscious." He squeezed Mike's hand a little tighter. "You're gonna be okay…"

He heard the door open behind him and glanced quickly over his shoulder. He recognized one of the ICU nurses and stepped back so she could see Mike's face and open eyes. "He just woke up," Steve said quickly and quietly, the relief in his voice unmistakable.

The nurse nodded and started to back from the room. "I'll page Dr. Murphy," she let him know as the door closed behind her.

Returning his full attention to his partner, whose eyes were boring into him, his grin got a little bigger. "You need to stay still until the doctor gets here. We don't want you hurting yourself even more, okay?"

Mike's eyes got wider, unblinking and unfocused, and Steve could see the growing fear and disorientation. Starting to worry, he tightened his grip on Mike's hand and put his free hand on the older man's now heaving chest, increasing his contact and, he hoped, his reassurance. Murphy had told him there would be probably be some short-term memory loss, coupled with confusion and agitation, when Mike regained consciousness.

"Look at me, Michael, look at me," he soothed, rubbing the older man's chest gently, "look at me… look at me…" He watched as the blue eyes started to soften and the tension under his hand began to ease. He smiled reassuringly. "You're gonna be fine, don't worry… I'm here with you and I'm not going anywhere… you're gonna be fine…"

He heard the door behind him open and suddenly Dr. Murphy was at his side. Still holding Mike's hand, Steve stepped away from the bed, allowing the neurologist access to his patient. "Hi, I'm Dr. Murphy, I've been looking after you," he said smoothly, with a broad smile, as he leaned over the bed and slipped the oxygen mask off, setting it aside then taking a medical penlight out of his pocket. "Can you tell me your name?" he asked genially.

Mike's blue eyes, which had gone from near panic to a heartbreaking uncertainty, were fixed on Murphy as he hovered over the bed. Steve could feel the grip on his hand tighten and he squeezed back.

Slowly, Mike tried to say his own name but the word was slurred and unintelligible. Murphy smiled reassuringly. "That's okay, don't worry. I know you're there, we just have to wait a bit; you're gonna be okay." He raised the penlight so Mike could see it. "I need to look into your eyes, okay?"

Mike's gaze slid from the doctor's face to the penlight, struggling to focus, then back again, and he nodded very slightly. Murphy grinned and winked. "Thanks," he said cheerfully and bent over his patient again, raising Mike's right eyelid and snapping the penlight on.

Steve watched anxiously as the doctor completed his examination then straightened up. "Everything looks good," he said to both of them, and took a step back as the nurse, who had been hovering silently near the door, moved to the far side of the bed.

Releasing Mike's hand, Steve backed further away as they checked his partner's vital signs and motor responses, Murphy constantly murmuring reassurances during his ministrations. Satisfied, he turned to the young cop and smiled. "He's doing great, and he's going to be fine. He'll probably be a little disoriented for awhile, a couple of hours or so I would think, but don't worry about it – it's perfectly normal. Just keep talking to him when he's awake, and if he falls asleep, let him. His body needs the rest and it's nothing to worry about." Murphy took another quick glance back at the bed as the nurse passed them to exit the room.

"He's a very lucky man; it could have been a lot worse." He smiled and looked back at Steve. "Relax, keep him company… and don't worry, okay?"

Steve snorted a short laugh. "Easier said than done," he smiled, shaking his head.

With a laugh of his own, Murphy nodded and briefly touched the younger man's arm. "Don't I know it. Just do the best you can."

As Murphy took his leave, Steve crossed back to the bed and leaned over. Mike's eyes slid slowly in his direction and his lips curled up in a tiny smile. His left hand moved and Steve picked it up, feeling a squeeze strong enough to make him grin with relief.

Then, in a voice that was weak but encouraging, Mike whispered, "Steve…"

# # # # #

"Irene?"

The gentle, familiar voice penetrated the stupor that had enveloped her and she opened her eyes slowly, struggling to focus on the smiling face that hung so near to her own. She blinked quickly to dispel the now constant tears, and the warm, genial features of her partner coalesced before her. She felt the soft touch of his hand on hers, the loving squeeze as she lifted her head to face him.

Sergeant Bob Wilson tried almost successfully to hide the involuntary wince when he saw her swollen lip and blackened eye. His smile wavered slightly. "How are you feeling, partner?"

She valiantly attempted to return the smile but it dissolved quickly as her lips quivered and she gasped, grabbing his hand and almost crushing his fingers in a vice-like grip. Her eyes snapped shut as she tried to swallow the sobs that she couldn't hold in.

In their three years together he had never seen her even remotely like this. Feeling suddenly inadequate, he swallowed heavily with an angry snort, the rage and sadness boiling up inside him once again as he held her hand and repeated softly and gently, "It'll be okay, Reeny, it'll be okay…"

# # # # #

Steve had been sitting quietly beside the bed for the last couple of hours, watching as his partner drifted in and out, struggling to focus both mentally and visually. Occasionally he would squeeze Mike's hand, feeling nothing in return, then the older man would stir slightly and he would feel the strong fingers close around his own.

Finally Mike's eyes opened and stayed open, staring at him, and he grinned: there was no mistaking that look. "Welcome back," he whispered. "How are you feeling?"

"Horrible… my head hurts," Mike sighed wearily, not even trying to mask the discomfort he was experiencing, and Steve's smile wavered and disappeared.

"Yeah, it's gonna be like that for awhile, I'm afraid. But you're in the best place for it, right?"

"I guess." Mike squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath for a few seconds as he fought off a wave of nausea and dizziness. Getting it under control, he opened his eyes again and stared at his young friend with a weak smile. "I'm okay."

"Good, 'cause Jeannie's on her way," Steve said with a smile, continuing quickly when he saw Mike's eyes narrow in alarm, "and don't give me any grief about it. She needed to know - and you know that." He chuckled, staring into the familiar blue eyes, more relieved than he could ever imagine that Mike was recovering faster than expected. "She probably won't be here for another four or five hours, around dinnertime probably – she has to transfer through L.A."

Very slowly Mike's eyebrows rose and he opened his mouth; Steve raised an admonishing finger. "Yes, she is flying – and I don't want you saying a word about it. I told her she should. Besides, with her here, that'll allow me to hit the streets."

Mike stared at him, knowing exactly what he meant. He frowned and looked away, slowly taking a deep breath. "I can't… remember anything…" he whispered in frustration.

Steve nodded sympathetically. "I know. Dr. Murphy said that might happen but he also said it's normal and things'll start to come back." He knew this was what Mike needed to hear, but he also realized that when Mike started to remember, his fear and anxiety for Irene and what had befallen her would begin to outweigh any concern for his own health. Steve knew he had to somehow stay ahead of the game, to allay Mike's fears before he even realized what was happening. But for that, he needed to have more information about Irene than he did right now.

"What's the last thing you do remember?" he asked conversationally. Under any other circumstance, he would have just told his partner what had happened, but because there were so many unknowns at the moment, it was imperative that Mike remember what had happened on his own, in the hope he had heard or seen something that could provide them with a valuable lead. As long a shot as it seemed, it was still a possibility, and his memory had to be genuine and untainted.

Looking away slightly, his focus turning inward, Mike raised his right hand and almost absent-mindedly ran his fingers across his eyebrow and rubbed his temple, as if trying to force the memory to return. "Um, ah, I guess… being in the office yesterday… at least I think it was yesterday. I'm not sure."

Steve smiled encouragingly. "Don't worry, it'll come back." Inwardly he sighed in relief; the longer it took Mike to remember, the more time he had to figure out his strategy.

# # # # #

"We, ah, we were walking down Eddy…" Irene was sitting up on the bed, the flannelette blanket around her shoulders, clinging tightly to her partner's hand. She was staring into space and her voice had a distant, detached quality that he knew was the cop in her finally finding its voice. "We'd gotten a late start – Mike had lost track of time," he could see the wisp of a smile play across her lips, "and we had to park on Larkin… We went to dinner after the opera so it was around… one, I guess, when we started back to the car…"

She stopped and took a deep breath, and Wilson squeezed her hand a little tighter.

"Mike was having trouble with his shoelaces… his shoelaces…" The smile briefly returned. "He had those round laces in his dress shoes and they kept undoing themselves… he stopped to retie them and I kept walking… we were only a couple of blocks from the car…"

She closed her eyes and Wilson waited. He knew she had to do this at her own pace.

"He came out of nowhere… I know now he must have been waiting in the alley, but I didn't hear him… I didn't hear anything…" She looked up quickly, meeting Wilson's eyes. "He must have been wearing sneakers or I would have heard him, I know I would have. I don't think I mentioned that before."

Wilson nodded encouragingly. "I'll tell them, don't worry."

She nodded then looked down again. Her free hand that had been worrying a corner of the blanket went to her throat. "He put his arm around my neck, in a chokehold, and a hand over my mouth. And he started to drag me back towards the alley before I could even react… before I could call out to Mike." She swallowed heavily. "I couldn't breathe… it was dark, pitch black, and I don't know how far he dragged me before I heard Mike calling my name… I wanted to call out to him, to warn him, but I couldn't, I think I'd started to black out…"

She stopped again and inhaled raggedly, biting her bottom lip. She gripped her partner's hand even tighter.

"I heard it… I heard them hit him… I heard him fall." Her hand went from her throat to her mouth and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to stop the tears. "I think I went into shock after that… everything else is a blur…" Her breaths were shallow and uneven as she struggled to maintain some kind of composure. "I, ah, I don't know how long it went on… there were two of them… I know they hit me, more than once… and they kicked me too, when they were done…"

Her voice had trailed off. He waited, knowing she had more to say. The anger that had become a painful knot in his stomach was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

Eventually she looked up and met his eyes. Then she slowly and sadly shook her head. "I didn't see them, Bill, it was too dark. I didn't see anything. And they didn't say anything… and I didn't smell anything…" She dropped her head and started to cry again, believing that all her training and all her experience had failed her when she had needed it the most.

He got up quickly and sat on the edge of the bed, putting his arms around her and pulling her close. She grabbed his shirt and buried her head against his chest, and as he stroked her hair, she began to let more of the grief she had holding inside escape.

He stared over her head at the far wall, his fury threatening to override his common sense. He knew what he needed to do, and he knew the one person he wanted at his side when he did it: Steve Keller.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Eight**

"Look, ah, you've been trying not to drift off for the past twenty minutes or so… I'm gonna get out of here and let you sleep for a couple of hours, okay?"

Steve pushed the overbed table, with the remains of their lunch, to the end of the bed and turned to face his partner. Mike had been allowed to eat a bowl of clear broth soup so Steve had made a trip to the cafeteria, returning with a sandwich for himself as well. Sitting up against the raised bedhead and moving with a careful, deliberate slowness, Mike had managed to feed himself, joking that he was grateful he didn't have to chew; it seemed like every move he made amplified the throbbing ache in his skull. "I think that's why they recommended the broth," Steve chuckled, thrilled beyond belief that the older man was actually feeling well enough to crack wise.

Struggling to keep his eyes open, Mike nodded dully.

"You want me to lower the bed?"

Mike started to shake his head then stopped abruptly with a moan, catching his breath. Steve grabbed his arm. "You gotta remember not to do that, right?"

"Unh-hunh," Mike groaned in quiet agreement, keeping his eyes closed. After several long seconds he opened them again. "I'm okay. Leave the bed."

"Okay," Steve nodded, removing his hand and taking a step back. "Go to sleep and I'll be back soon, hopefully before Jeannie gets here."

At the mention of his daughter's name, Mike smiled and closed his eyes once more. Steve stared at his best friend silently as he backed towards the door. Letting it close quietly behind him, he started through the ICU and out into the busy corridor.

He rubbed a hand across his face and through his hair. It had already been a long day and it was just after one. And he knew it was going to get a lot longer. There were so many unanswered questions, about Irene, about the baby, about what had actually happened in that alley, and who was responsible; he had to start getting some answers or he wasn't sure how long he could hold onto his temper, or his sanity.

# # # # #

Bob Wilson threw the door open with a bang and strode purposefully across the tile floor to the glass-walled inner office. Every startled eye in the outer office followed his progress. Captain Ryan Clarke, under whose command the sex crimes unit fell, glanced up from the report he was perusing and froze. "Sergeant Wilson… can I help you?" he asked warily, taking in his visitor's flushed face and audible breaths.

"Yeah," Wilson said coldly, taking a step towards the desk, "you can assign me to my partner's case."

"Ah," Clarke said quietly, looking down and dropping the file to his desk then clearing his throat and looking back up at the obviously agitated Robbery sergeant. "Bob," he began quietly, "you know I can't –"

"Bullshit, you can do anything you want."

"And you know it's department policy that any police officer is excused if the case involves a family member or partner, you know that."

"You can make an exception –"

"I _can't_ make an exception, and you know that as well." Clarke stared into the sergeant's blazing brown eyes. He knew what Wilson was going through; back when he was an inspector, his older partner had been shot in the line of duty and forced to retire. The feelings of helplessness, guilt and inadequacy never go away. With a heavy sigh, he dropped his head into his hand then pushed it up through his hair. "Shut the door and sit down."

Wilson waited a beat before following the quasi-order, staring at the captain the entire time, not willing to let him off the hook.

"Listen, uh, before I say anything, just…" Clarke hesitated and took a deep breath. "How's Irene doing?"

Thrown by the unexpected question, Wilson sat back slightly and cocked his head. "Not good. They messed her up pretty bad… you know, physically and… and emotionally…"

Clarke closed his eyes and shook his head. He knew Inspector Martin well and had always admired his tough, talented and highly accomplished colleague. He looked up at her obviously distraught partner and sighed. "Look, ah, Bob, there might be something I can do for you."

Wilson leaned forward and put his forearms on the desk.

# # # # #

Steve had been cooling his heels in the corridor between the elevators and the nurse's station for about fifteen minutes when the man he was waiting for finally appeared. "Inspector Keller?" the blond white-coated physician asked as he approached with his right hand outstretched. "I'm Dr. Carlysle. What can I do for you?"

Steve pocketed the I.D. and badge he'd held up and smiled as they shook hands. "If you don't mind, Doctor, I'd like to ask you a couple of questions?"

Carlysle glanced at his watch. "I have about ten minutes so, sure, shoot. What's this about?" He gestured to an area a little further down the corridor where they could have a bit of privacy and Steve followed his lead.

"Ah, it's about Inspector Irene Martin. I'd like to get a little information about her, if I can?"

"In what regard?" the physician asked guardedly. "I'm not at liberty to just give out information on my patients without the proper authorization, if at all – I'm sure you're aware of that. And there have already been a number of officers here to see her, so… why do you want to talk to me?"

Steve flashed a grin, realizing that this might take a little more finessing than he had anticipated. "Dr. Carlysle… I'm sure you're aware of the circumstances surrounding the, ah, the incident that brought Inspector Martin here last night?"

Carlysle inclined his head slightly. "Yes, the assault…" His tone was skeptical.

Steve hesitated slightly. "Yes. And were you aware that she wasn't the only person assaulted last night? The, ah, the man she was with was hit over the head with a 2x4 and suffered a fractured skull. He was taken to St. Mary's… something to do with your CT scanner being out of order or something like that?"

His brow furrowed, the doctor nodded. "Yes…yes, it is. They expect it back up and running in a couple of days…"

"The man that was injured, he's her finance. He's going to be okay, but right now, he has no memory of what happened, and he has no idea that she was raped. But he's going to remember." Steve, who had been staring at the doctor while he spoke, dropped his eyes and took a deep breath.

"What has that got to do –?"

Steve's head snapped up. "Doctor, that man is my partner, Lieutenant Mike Stone." He saw Carlysle's eyes widen. "And I am the only person, besides Mike and Irene, who knows that she's pregnant." The doctor froze but when he was not forthcoming, Steve continued calmly and quietly, "Look, I know Inspector Martin is not seeing anyone… she doesn't want visitors right now, and I understand that completely… but he needs to know… he deserves to know…"

Carlysle stared at the young cop without blinking. "Inspector, you know I can't –"

"I know. I know you can't tell me!" Steve snapped, cutting him off. "But Doctor, I have a badly injured man lying in a hospital bed who is going to be asking me a lot of questions very soon, and I just want to know if I can tell him if he's going to be a father or not. That's all I want to know."

Carlysle continued to stare at him and as the seconds passed neither man moved. Finally Steve took a breath. "Look," he said quietly, "I know you can't _say_ it, but…" He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head.

Carlysle's brow furrowed, then he slowly lifted his chin and his features softened. Steve smiled slightly. The doctor glanced at his watch then began to move away. Almost as an afterthought, he turned back and met the young cop's eyes evenly. "What was that question you wanted to ask me, Inspector?" he asked almost conversationally.

A look of profound gratitude flashed briefly across Steve's face and he cleared his throat. "Doctor … can I tell my partner he's going to be a father?"

Carlysle's eyes suddenly became very bright and he bit his bottom lip. He looked away briefly and then back. And he shook his head.

# # # # #

Steve sat in his car in the parking lot across the street from San Francisco General for a long time, trying to come to grips with what he had just learned. In less than twenty-four hours an unanticipated joy had turned into inexplicable tragedy.

He couldn't begin to fathom how Irene was coping, or even if; and how in the world was he going to tell Mike?

Taking a deep breath, he shot his cuff so he could see his watch. He calculated that he had time before Jeannie arrived to make a quick trip to the Hall and find out first-hand what, if anything, had been uncovered so far.

He made the short drive to Bryant Street almost in a trance; luckily rush hour hadn't started yet and the traffic was reasonably light for a mid-week afternoon. He was pocketing the keys as he jogged across the parking lot when the back door opened suddenly and Bob Wilson charged through, looking down and seemingly oblivious.

Steve stopped abruptly to avoid being run into and Wilson's head came up quickly, frowning. "Shit, sorry –" the Robbery sergeant blurted out almost involuntarily, then cut himself off when he recognized his almost victim. "Steve! Holy hell, I've been trying to find you."

Steve eyebrows shot up. "I've been at the hospital with Mike," he explained quickly, "why?" There was a sudden worry in his tone. "Is it Irene?"

Wilson, whose attention seemed far away, looked at his younger colleague sharply. "Ah, no, no," he said quickly, "sorry, no. I mean, she's, ah, she's not great, you know…" The worry and concern in his voice was obvious, as was a trace of guilt that Steve found disturbing. "She's, ah… she's having a hard time." His gaze drifted away.

"I bet," Steve offered softly, then waited while the other man pulled himself together.

Wilson's head snapped up again. "How's, ah, how's Mike doing?"

"Oh, ah, good, a lot better than we thought at first. I mean, he has a hairline skull fracture –"

"Shit, really?!" Wilson sounded surprised. "God, I didn't know that."

Steve nodded. "Yeah, yeah, but he's doing fine, he woke up a few hours ago and he's making good progress already… but, you know, it's gonna take some time…"

"Yeah, yeah," the sergeant whispered, his gaze drifting away again. Then once more his brown eyes snapped back to Steve's. "Look, ah, the reason I was trying to find you…" He hesitated, glancing at his watch. "Listen, do you have time to grab a beer with me? We need to talk."

Steve shook his head. "Sorry, Bob, I've just got a few minutes. Mike's daughter's flying in from Arizona and I want to make sure I talk to her before she sees him. I was just dropping in here to check in with Rudy and Captain Redding, see what's happening."

"That's what I want to talk to you about," Wilson said, taking a step closer and lowering his voice. "You know Captain Clarke, right?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Okay. Do me a favour and don't go see Olsen or Redding, all right? You and I, we've gotta talk."

# # # # #

Steve stretched, trying to work the stiffness out of his back and neck, and glanced once more at the bed. Mike had been asleep when he'd returned and had remained so in the forty-five minutes that had since passed.

There was a soft knock on the door and a nurse stuck her head in. "Excuse me, Inspector Keller? You asked to be notified when the Lieutenant's…" she whispered with a nod in Mike's direction, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Nodding quickly, Steve got to his feet, glancing at the bed, satisfied that Mike was showing no signs of waking before he tiptoed to the door and followed the nurse out into the main ICU room. "Thank you," he said quietly with a smile.

"You're welcome. She's out at the desk," the nurse gestured towards the double doors.

Steve continued on through the ICU entrance. Jeannie, in a turtleneck and jeans, her coat and purse slung over one arm, was pacing nervously, looking down. At the sound of the doors opening, she glanced up and her worried face broke into a relieved grin when her eyes fell on her father's partner.

"Oh, Steve," she cried softly as she crossed the distance between them in a rush. He spread his arms and she wrapped hers around him; he put one hand on the back of her head as she leaned against his chest. She pulled back slightly and looked up at him. "How is he?"

He grinned. "He's awake. I told ya," he laughed and he could feel her relax under his touch. "He woke up a few hours ago. He's talking, he's moving everything; they even gave him a little soup earlier. He's doing better than they hoped, so… it's good, Jeannie, it's really good."

She sighed loudly and hugged him again. He took her upper arms and moved her away slightly so he could see her face. "Look, ah, he's sleeping right now, and I don't think we should disturb him. What say you come in and see him for a couple of minutes and then, ah, then you and I head down to the cafeteria and have something to eat?"

She pulled away from him a little more, her brow furrowing. She nodded slowly.

"Good, good." He sighed and tried to smile encouragingly. "Jeannie, there's a couple of things you need to know before you talk to him."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Nine**

They had found a small table in a corner; the cafeteria was busy but not over-crowded, and they actually had a bit of privacy. They had maintained a genial silence in the trip down in the elevator and then in the cafeteria line as they made their selections; Jeannie got a hot tea and a ham sandwich while Steve settled for just a cup of coffee.

As she set her tray on the table, she stared at him with a worried frown. He put the cup down then leaned across the table towards her. She knew by the body language that what he was about to say was going to be disturbing and she braced herself. She took the plastic lid off her tea but left the sandwich in its wrapper.

She had stood beside her father's bed for a few minutes before they'd headed down here. He had looked better than she was expecting; other than the thick gauze bandage around his head, he looked like he had just laid down for a nap. She had resisted the urge to touch him, not wanting him to wake, and had left the room feeling better than she had since Steve's phone call.

So now she was extremely curious, and more than a little fearful, as to what her father's partner wanted to talk to her about. He seemed uncharacteristically nervous and a knot was growing in her stomach.

He smiled encouragingly and glanced down quickly before meeting her eyes again. "Jeannie, Mike's gonna be fine, physically. Yeah, he does have a hairline skull fracture and a dozen stitches in his scalp but… you saw him, right? He looks good."

She smiled and nodded, but her brow was still furrowed. "He looks a lot better than I was expecting, that's for sure."

"Yeah, he's doing great. He still doesn't remember what happened last night… his last memory seems to be in the office yesterday afternoon. But the doctors have told me that's all normal with someone who's lost consciousness for a period of time, like he did, and his memory is going to come back." He paused and looked down again, taking a deep breath. When he met her eyes once more, he looked profoundly sad and she silently caught her breath.

"Is it Irene? Has something happened to Irene?" she asked fearfully.

He shook his head quickly and sat back slightly, "No no no, Irene's… Irene's okay, she was knocked around pretty good but she's… she's okay." He was sounding vague and he knew it. He took another deep breath. "Jeannie, you know Irene and your father have started seeing each other again, and I mean, you know, a lot, right?"

Jeannie nodded, unable to contain her happy smile. After Mike and Irene had broken off their engagement, her father had seemed a little more melancholy than usual at times. She knew he had missed Irene's company more than he cared to admit. And she was delighted when her father had called her a couple of months ago to tell her that they were 'dating' each other again, as he had put it.

"Jeannie," Steve said quietly, clearing his throat and looking down at the table, "Jeannie, Irene got pregnant." He looked up at her from under his brow. She froze and her eyes slowly widened. He waited, knowing that, like her father, she was processing this new information slowly and thoroughly.

The cup of tea, which she had been holding up, ready to sip, hovered in the air and she very slowly put it down on the table, her unblinking stare never leaving his face. Releasing the cup, she sat back. Eventually her eyebrows rose and she said softly, "Pregnant?"

Steve pressed his lips together and nodded, still not sure how she was reacting.

Her eyes slid slowly towards the table and her rigid posture relaxed slightly. "Wow," she breathed. She looked dumbfounded; probably how Mike looked when he found out, he thought to himself, suppressing a smile. She looked up at him and her brow furrowed again. "How did they take it?"

"Well, ah," Steve cleared his throat, swallowing a smile, "ah, they were both, um, shocked, I guess you could say… but they… warmed to the idea and… " He shrugged, letting the rest of his explanation hang, knowing that if he continued he would tip his hand.

Jeannie looked down again, shaking her head in disbelief, then looked up sharply. "Why didn't Mike tell me?" She sounded a little annoyed.

"Well, he, ah, he wanted to wait until she was past the first trimester… in case, you know…" He shrugged and cocked his head slightly. "He was going to tell you when you came home for Christmas."

She sagged, her gaze sliding back to the tabletop. "Oh… well, that makes sense." When she looked up at him again, she was smiling. "Wow," she breathed again, shaking her head, then her eyes narrowed and she stared at him. "But… ah, isn't, ah, Irene… you know…?" She shrugged slightly, not wanting to put into words what she was trying to get across.

Steve's eyebrows went up and he nodded with a rueful smile. "Ah, yeah, um, it seems that's what they thought too…"

"Unh-hunh." Jeannie's mouth hung open slightly as she continued to process this startling new information. Then she looked up at him, her mouth closing into a warm smile. "Steve, I think it's just wonderful… I mean, don't you?"

He smiled slightly himself, nodding, but she could see the anguish that was still in his eyes.

Her smile disappeared and she sat back slightly. "What aren't you telling me?" she asked evenly, trying to mask the trepidation in her voice.

Leaning over the table, Steve let his gaze fall, taking a deep breath and forcing it out in a loud rush. When he looked up at her, she could see the profound sadness in his eyes. "Jeannie, Irene was raped last night."

Her entire body jerked back involuntarily and she brought a hand to her mouth to cover a gasp, her eyes widening in shock. He didn't move as her stare bored into him, then she very slowly closed her eyes and dropped her head.

"She lost the baby, didn't she?" she said softly, more a statement than a question.

"Yes," came the almost breathless reply and she felt Steve's hand on hers. She opened her eyes and looked into his. "And Mike doesn't know yet, does he?"

Steve shook his head. "He doesn't even know she was raped."

They stared at each other for several long seconds then Jeannie asked quietly, "How in the world are we going to tell him?"

Steve squeezed her hand. "I've been thinking about that. And I want you to leave it to me… He, ah, he has to remember what happened last night on his own, and he's gonna figure out what happened to Irene." He dropped his gaze once more and smiled. "Jeannie, I was the only one, until last night, who knew about the baby. Your father trusted me enough to tell me, and I am not about to break that trust. Once he realizes what's happened… well, I'm gonna leave it up to him if he wants to tell you or not… okay?"

She nodded, tears building in her eyes, not only for what Mike and Irene had gained and lost in so short a time, but also for the unwavering love and devotion that the young man sitting in front of her continued to display towards her father. She tried to smile but didn't quite succeed. "What do you need me to do?"

Steve released her hand and sat back. He was feeling a lot better about this whole quagmire. The smile he sent across the table was warm and full of gratitude. "Well, you can do a lot, believe me. As far as I know, Irene has… walled herself off from everybody except her partner. In addition to losing the baby, she was beaten up pretty badly… a couple of broken ribs, some cuts, a lot of bruising…"

Jeannie winced and caught her breath and Steve's hand shot across the table again.

"She's gonna be okay, but from what Bob Wilson, her partner, told me – and he doesn't know anything about the pregnancy or the baby – well, he said she's taken the assault pretty bad. She doesn't want to talk to anybody."

"Where is she?"

"She's at the General. They're gonna keep her there for a couple of days, because of the broken ribs and the miscarriage." He sighed heavily and his eyes bored into hers. "I think she might see you. You two got kinda close when she and Mike were engaged, right? And what with the… the pregnancy and all, well, she might just talk to you more than anyone else… What do you think?"

Jeannie's eyes slid down to the tabletop; after several seconds she nodded slowly. "I think you're right. At least I can give it a try." She looked up at him suddenly. "But I want to see Mike first, all right?"

"Of course," he assured her quickly. "I never meant for you to go see Irene now. I was thinking maybe tomorrow morning? I can take you over there."

She nodded again, frowning. He glanced at his watch, then at the paper cup of cold coffee in front of him. He snorted dryly, shaking his head. Her eyes shifted to her own cup of tea and she touched it, then looked up at him and smiled wryly. "I think we better get back upstairs. I want to make sure your father sees you when he wakes up." He pointed at the still unwrapped ham sandwich. "Bring that with you; he won't mind you spending money on plane fare, but wasting money on a sandwich? Shameful!"

As he stood, mimicking her father, she couldn't resist the laughter that suddenly bubbled to the surface. No matter how painful and difficult the next few days we going to be, Steve Keller would be there to help everyone through them, and that was the best thing for everyone.

# # # # #

Trying to stay quiet, she put her purse and coat near the door, then perched herself on the tall stool at the head of the bed. She looked back at Steve, who had stayed near the door, then reached out to place her hand lightly on her father's forearm.

Mike groaned slightly and stirred but his eyes remained closed. Glancing over her shoulder at Steve, she leaned forward a little more and increased the pressure of her hand. Her father groaned again and raised his arm a bit, then his eyes opened slightly, looking vaguely in her direction.

"Hi, Daddy," she whispered, smiling and rubbing his arm.

His expression was blank and she could see he was struggling to focus.

"Mike, it's me, Jeannie." Her tone remained light as she tried to mask the worry.

"Daddy…" she repeated, laying the palm of her free hand on his beard-stubbled cheek and stroking his face.

He blinked slowly several times, showing no sign of recognition. She heard Steve take a couple of steps closer to the bed, felt his hand on her shoulder.

"Mike," she heard him say, and watched as her father's gaze slid slowly upwards, to above her head, but there was still no comprehension.

"Daddy?" she begged again, no longer attempting to keep the fear from her voice. His vacant stare returned to her face. She looked over her shoulder. "Steve?"

The young cop was starting at his partner worriedly. "I'll go get the doctor," he whispered to her and began to turn away.

"Jeannie?"

Both young faces snapped back towards the bed. Mike's eyes had focused and he was staring at his daughter. A smile began to slowly emerge. "Jeannie… hi, sweetheart," he whispered and she gasped in relief.

She slid off the stool and stood over the bed, bending down to give him a kiss as Steve sighed loudly and took a step back, running a hand through his hair.

Forty-five minutes later, Steve and Jeannie left the room and a sleeping Mike behind them. As they exited through the ICU double doors and started down the corridor towards the elevators, Steve threw his arm around her shoulders.

She sighed. "He really is doing a lot better than I was expecting, and I am so happy about that. But I wish he'd get his memory back. I'm kinda worried about that."

They had stopped at the bank of elevators and Steve punched the down button. "Yeah, me too, but, ah, I'm kinda not looking forward to telling him about Irene."

Jeannie, her arm around his back, gave him a quick squeeze.

"Listen, ah," he continued, as they heard a _ding_ and glanced up at the hall lantern lights, stepping towards the lit one, "I'm gonna drive you home and I'll pick you up tomorrow morning and take you over to the General, then I'll come back here and spend the morning with your father, okay?"

She nodded wearily. It had been an emotionally draining day.

"Say, ah, where's your suitcase?" he asked as the elevator doors opened and he let her precede him into the car.

"Oh," she said with a slight chuckle, "Norm brought it to the house for me. He said he'd put it up by the front door and that quote _No one in their right mind would climb all those stairs on the outside chance they'd find a suitcase up there all by itself!_ I think he has a point."

The elevators doors closed on their shared laugh.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 10**

The waitress set the bottle of beer and the tall empty glass on the dark wood tabletop in front of the handsome, tired-looking young man with the tousled brown hair and turned to the stocky, dark-haired, slightly older one sitting opposite him.

"Here you go, keep the change," the older one said, handing her a ten-dollar bill with a smile and a nod.

Stretching his shoulders and tilting his head back and forth to work out the kinks, Steve Keller looked across the table. "Thanks, Bob," he mumbled as the waitress walked away, giving the younger man an approving backwards glance. "I can use this right about now."

"Yeah, you look it," Bob Wilson chuckled with a mirthless smile, taking a sip from his own bottle. "Helluva day, hunh? How's Mike doing?"

Pushing the glass aside, Steve picked up the bottle and took a long draft. Swallowing, he looked across the table and cocked his head. "He's doing okay. Jeannie – ah, his daughter – she flew in tonight and got to spend some time with him. But he still doesn't remember anything about last night… and he still doesn't know anything about Irene."

He looked at Wilson from under hooded brows and the older man sighed heavily. "Damn, that's gonna be rough," he commiserated, shaking his head sadly.

"Tell me about it. So, is Irene still refusing to see anyone?"

Wilson looked up and nodded. "She talked to me, but she doesn't want to see anybody else. She's, ah, she's pretty messed up."

Steve nodded slowly, his eyes on the bottle on the table before him. "Look, Bob, I really need to get home. I've been up since about four and it's been a helluva day, like you said. I gotta get some sleep 'cause I want to be back at the hospital tomorrow morning in case Mike starts remembering… I, ah, I want to be there for him, you know… I want to be the one to tell him…"

Wilson stared at his colleague and his furrowed brow eased slightly, a tiny empathetic smile slowly appearing. "Partners, hunh?" he said eventually, with a tiny sad chuckle, "What would we do, or be, without them, right?"

With a sad snort, Steve looked down at the table and blinked quickly several times. "Yeah," he said softly.

The silence lengthened between them, then Steve looked up and cleared his throat. "So, ah, so what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

As if being pulled back to the present, Wilson shifted in the chair, leaning forward and wrapping both hands around his beer bottle.

"I'm, ah, I'm assuming that you want to be in on the investigation into what went down last night… am I right?"

Eyebrows on the rise, Steve leaned forward as well, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. He nodded.

"Well, I went to see Captain Clarke today. We, ah, we had a rather interesting little talk." Wilson hesitated for a beat, glancing away then back. "He told me we couldn't be _official_ members of the investigative team, but there was an avenue of, ah, inquiry that he thought maybe we could… pursue."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he couldn't say much, at least not outright, but he made a lot of allusions. I got the impression that there was a lot he couldn't say – I don't know why – but it seemed he was trying to push me in a direction that… I don't know… I just got the feeling that he was trying to tell me that this was a direction that his men weren't allowed to go in… if you catch my drift."

"What, you mean that they've been told officially not to go there?"

Wilson shrugged. "Something like that. It's, ah, it's just a feeling, Steve, nothing I can point to specifically, but you know when someone's trying to tell you something without actually saying it? Well, that's the feeling I got from Clarke, if you know what I mean."

Steve nodded, frowning. "So, ah, what _direction_ did he tell you to go in?"

"Well, he gave me the name of some woman he wants me –" He looked up, raising his eyebrows, "us – to go see. I have no idea who this woman is, but I'm assuming that it will all become obvious to us when we meet with her." He smiled mirthlessly at the young inspector. "So… you wanna go in with me on this?"

Steve, who had been peeling the label off the beer bottle with his thumb while he listened, nodded slowly. "Yeah, I do." He looked up and inclined his head. "But not until Mike knows about Irene. I don't know how long that's going to take, but I want to be there for him, until he… I don't know, until he doesn't need me anymore," he finished quietly, his gaze now back on the bottle.

Wilson snorted and dropped his head. When he finally spoke, his voice was shaky and his eyes were bright. "Take all the time you need…" He drained the last of his beer. "Listen, ah, I'll hold off on this for a day or so, play it by ear. I want to make sure Irene is coming along too before I take off on her, so –"

"Oh, speaking of which," Steve cut him off, "um, I've asked Jeannie – Mike's daughter – to stop by the General tomorrow morning to see if Irene'll talk to her…"

As Wilson leaned closer, Steve explained the reasoning behind his suggestion. Irene's partner listened and nodded.

Eventually they each ordered another beer and sat together for awhile longer, talking about their partners and how all their lives had changed in the past twenty-four hours. It felt good to unburden; it was well after midnight before they went their respective ways, hoping that things would be better in the morning, for everyone.

# # # # #

She glanced at her watch as she tried to stay out of everyone's way near the elevators. Jeannie had been waiting near the nurse's station on the fourth floor of San Francisco General for almost twenty minutes now.

She was trying not to fidget. When Steve had dropped her off almost an hour ago, she had asked at the front desk to see Dr. Carlysle. Instructed to go up to the fourth floor, she had managed to meet briefly with the busy physician, handing him a note that Steve had given her for him. After she explained why she was there, he read the note with a grim formality.

Finished, he carefully folded the paper back up and returned it to her without a word. He hesitated for several seconds, looking at her, then his frown dissipated and he smiled gently. "You might be just what she needs right now. She's been so withdrawn and incommunicative that I'm really beginning to worry. Listen, give me a few minutes to go talk to her and I'll let you know, okay?"

Relieved, Jeannie had bestowed her best Stone grin upon him, nodding. "Thank you so much, Dr. Carlysle. I'm not sure if I can help her, but at least it'll be woman to woman, right?"

His ironic smile got a little wider and he shook his head sadly. "I'm, ah, I'm so sorry about the baby. I, ah, I think that's what's bothering her the most. That and her worry about your father."

Jeannie's smile quickly vanished and she nodded grimly. "Thank you. My, ah, my dad still doesn't know; his memory hasn't returned yet."

Carlysle's hand shot out and he gripped her forearm in sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that, Ms. Stone. This must be very difficult for all of you. You have my best wishes for a speedy and, um, a very healing recovery for your dad, in every way."

"Thank you," she said sincerely, appreciating his genuine concern.

"Look, ah," he said quickly, removing his hand, "I'll go talk to Ms. Martin and see if she's agreeable to having you visit."

"Thank you," Jeannie said again as he started away.

That was twenty minutes ago and she was still waiting. Finally, a nurse she hadn't seen before approached her. "Ms. Stone?"

"Yes?"

"Dr. Carlysle apologizes, there was an emergency and he had to go to another floor, but he asked me to let you know that Ms. Martin has asked to see you. If you'll just follow me, please." Without waiting for a reply, the nurse turned and started off down the corridor on their right.

Jeannie jogged quickly to catch up, then followed slightly behind, trying not to look in the open wardroom doors as she passed. After a couple of turns down identical corridors, the nurse stopped in front of a closed door and turned to the young woman behind her. "Ms. Martin is in here," she announced with a genial formality then turned and continued down the corridor at a brisk clip.

Suddenly at a loss for what to do, Jeannie hesitated, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then knocked softly on the wooden door. There was only silence. She raised her hand again then hesitated before knocking a second time, a little louder. After a long beat, a shaky but familiar voice called out, "Come in!"

Jeannie closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, plastered a hopefully sympathetic grin on her face and pushed the door open.

# # # # #

Steve stepped off the elevators and started towards the ICU unit. He glanced at his watch. He knew Mike was scheduled for another CT scan this morning but he had forgotten what time.

It was close to one a.m. before he had finally fallen into bed, exhausted physically and mentally from the very stressful and worrying day. He had dropped off to sleep almost immediately, still in his clothes, but not before he had set his alarm for seven. He knew he would need a shower, shave and a decent breakfast before picking Jeannie up and taking her to the General. It would do no-one, especially Mike, any good if he let his own health and well-being suffer, and he had been tired long before all of this started.

Chances are it was going to be another emotionally and physically taxing day. And in a purely selfish way he was not looking forward to it. But he would be there for Mike, no matter what it took, no matter what he had to do; the most important person in his life right now was going to need him in ways neither of them was aware of yet. He hoped he was up to the task.

He had just stepped through the doors when a nurse he recognized from yesterday looked up from her seat behind the station and called out, "Inspector Keller, oh my god, we've been trying to get a hold of you!"

Steve slid to a stop, his heart jumping into his throat. "Mike -?"

She quickly crossed around the large desk and approached him, cutting him off and speaking rapidly. "He's supposed to be getting a CT scan done right now, but about a half hour ago he started getting agitated and asking for you. I think he's starting to remember what happened."

Steve's eyes were snapping back and forth from the nurse's face to the closed door of Mike's ICU cubicle. As he took a rapid step in that direction, she called after him, "Dr. Murphy is with him."

Without bothering to knock, Steve pushed the wooden door opened and almost flew into the room. He could see the neurologist leaning over the bed. "We're trying to find him, Lieutenant, and as soon as we do –"

"I'm here, Mike," Steve called from the door and the doctor straightened up and turned toward him, his concerned features relaxing at the sight of the young cop crossing toward the bed.

Murphy took a step back and Steve's gaze fell on the fear and pain filled face of his partner. Mike reached out with his left hand as Steve got to the bed and grabbed the younger man's arm. He was breathing heavily and his eyes were wide. "I remember, Steve," he mumbled, his words slightly and frighteningly slurred. "I remember." He sounded devastated.

Murphy touched Steve's arm as he stepped closer and whispered sotto voce, "You do what you have to do. The CT scan can wait." Then he moved silently to the door and exited.

Mike's hand tightened on his arm as he pulled the stool beside the bed and sat, leaning close. The older man's stare never left his face as he struggled to control the pain and the dread.

Slowly and deliberately, Steve took Mike's left hand in both of his and stared into his eyes. Then very gently and quietly he said, "Tell me what you remember."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 11**

Irene Martin was curled up on her left side on the hospital bed, facing the door, when Jeannie Stone walked into the room. The younger woman had a warm, tentative, furrowed-brow smile on her face as she crossed slowly to the bed.

Wincing, Irene pushed herself up, moving slowly and carefully. She smiled back, and there was a heartbreaking vulnerability in her eyes that made Jeannie pause, a hand coming up to cover her mouth. "Oh, Irene," she breathed as she saw the blackened eye, the still puffy but healing lip and the obvious bruises left by strong and violent hands that had materialized on her upper arms.

Under her haunted eyes, the older woman's smile got slightly wider and she reached out, waiting till Mike's daughter grabbed her hand, then pulled her closer to the bed. "Jeannie," she whispered, affection and gratitude in her voice. "I'm so glad you came." She pulled the younger woman down on the bed beside her, staring into her eyes anxiously, and Jeannie's heart skipped a beat. "Nobody's been able to tell me anything about your father. I've been so worried about him." Her voice was thin and terrified.

Jeannie inhaled sharply. "Oh, god, you don't need worry about him, he's going to be okay."

Irene's brow furrowed even more and she inhaled sharply. "But I saw him, he was unconscious and there was so much blood… They hit him so hard…" Her voice trailed off and her stare unfocused.

Jeannie gripped her hand tighter. "Irene, he _is_ badly hurt, but you know Mike, he's going to be fine." The older woman looked up, her face a question. Jeannie smiled encouragingly. "He has a skull fracture," she said carefully and, on Irene's gasp, continued quickly, "but it's not as bad as it sounds, really." When Irene's eyes got even wider, she chuckled softly. "You know Mike, he's always had a hard head. Well, this time, it was a good thing."

Irene's eyebrows rose and she shook her head in confusion.

Jeannie snuggled in a little closer. She knew Irene needed more information than just a lame joke, so she allowed her smile to disappear. "Irene, listen to me, please. Yes, Mike has a fractured skull, but it's a hairline fracture; there was no depression in his skull and there's been no bleeding on the brain. He has twelve stitches in his scalp – that's why he bled so much – but the doctor's have told us that he's going to be perfectly fine… but, like any broken bone, it's just going to take some time, that's all." She had decided not to tell Irene about Mike's current memory loss.

When Irene finally seemed to relax a little, Jeannie smiled. "You know Mike's always been a lucky guy, right? You don't have to worry about him, Irene, he's gonna be fine."

Irene's smile was still tinged with worry but she stared into Jeannie's eyes with a growing calm and squeezed her hand a little tighter.

"They're going to keep him in St. Mary's for a couple more days, just to be sure, but he'll be going home soon." Jeannie's smile wavered and disappeared as her gaze slid slowly towards Irene's still swollen lip and black eye. She reached out hesitantly and gently touched her cheek. "Oh, Irene," she said softly, her voice cracking. She took a deep ragged breath before whispering, "Steve told me what happened."

# # # # #

Mike's features were contorted in fear and worry; he grabbed Steve's hand with all the strength he could summon. "Irene," he blurted out, "I was with Irene… Where is she? Is she all right? They hurt her, didn't they?" The desperation in his voice was heartbreaking.

Squeezing Mike's hand harder, he nodded encouragingly. "She's gonna be okay, she's at the General."

"She's hurt?"

"She got roughed up and she has a couple of broken ribs but she's gonna be all right. Don't worry about her, Mike, she's gonna be okay, all right?"

"You're not lying to me, are you? Please, Steve, I need to know."

The younger man was shaking his head. "I wouldn't lie to you, you know that. She's gonna be okay, they just want to keep her in for a few days, just like with you." Mike was staring into his eyes, as if willing himself to believe. Steve stared back and he felt the older man's grip on his hand slacken slightly. After a few seconds, he instructed gently, "So tell me what you remember, okay?"

Mike nodded slightly then closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if trying to get his thoughts together. When he opened them again, he was staring somewhere deep inside. "We were downtown. We went to the opera, and then we had dinner. It was late; I remember looking at my watch and it was one-fifteen. We were walking back to our car, I'd parked on Larkin and we were walking down Eddy…" He paused and swallowed. "I stopped to tie my shoes; I had those round shoelaces and they kept coming undone." Wincing, he shook his head, the enormity of this simple act coming into focus. Steve felt his grip tighten.

"Irene kept walking. I was busy tying my shoes and when I stood up and looked for her, she was gone… I, ah, I called for her and started down the street, but I couldn't see or hear anything…" He paused and his eyes finally met his partners.

Steve's expression didn't change; he knew Mike needed, and wanted, to work through this on his own.

"There was an alley, on the left… it was pitch-black, I couldn't see anything… but I heard a sound…" He shook his head slightly, his gaze once more unfocusing. "I don't know what it was, I couldn't make it out… There, ah, there was a dumpster on the right… I started to go into the alley. I reached for my gun…" He chuckled cheerlessly at the irony; he'd never particularly liked to carry and always felt relieved when he could take it off and put it away.

"I heard another sound, like someone struggling… I knew it was Irene." He inhaled sharply and Steve could see him shudder. "Then I heard someone behind me… um, ah, a footstep… I, ah, I don't remember anything after that." He looked up and met his partner's eyes again. "I didn't see anything, Steve. Nothing…" He sounded disappointed in himself.

Steve tightened his grip. The blue eyes bored into his as he watched the pieces fall into place in the older man's mind. Suddenly Mike's chest began to heave and his rapid breaths were audible through his open mouth. "She was raped, wasn't she?" he asked quietly, his voice trembling. "She was raped."

Steve closed his eyes and bit his lip, letting his head fall slightly before he nodded.

Mike's head dropped back onto the bed and he grimaced, squeezing his eyes tightly closed. He brought his right hand up to his face and covered his eyes, his chest continuing to heave as he fought for control, the magnitude of what had just been confirmed sinking in.

Steve sat quietly, watching and waiting, knowing that the best and virtually only thing he could do for his partner right now was just to be there. Words at this point were superfluous and inadequate, he knew.

Eventually Mike's breaths became deeper and longer, though his hand remained over his eyes. Steve squeezed his other hand again, hoping to impart strength and comfort; Mike squeezed back.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Mike took his hand away from his face; the haunted, guilty look broke the younger man's heart. The tear-filled blue eyes that slowly met Steve's were filled with an almost anxious inevitability. He took a quick breath before asking softly, "She lost the baby, didn't she?"

Steve froze, his breath and his voice catching in his throat. Very slowly he rested his left hand on the older man's chest, then whispered, "Yes."

Expressionless, Mike carefully turned his head so he was facing the ceiling and closed his eyes. With a sadly empathetic sigh, Steve increased the pressure of his hand on his partner's chest. Neither of them moved for a very long time.

# # # # #

Her stare having turned inward, Irene had wrapped her arms around herself and was rocking slowly on the bed. Jeannie had slipped an arm around her shoulders and was holding her close. If the older woman wanted to talk, she would be there; if she didn't, Jeannie would still be there.

After several silent minutes, Irene slowly and gently laid her head against Jeannie's shoulder, and the younger woman could feel the deep shudders that were wracking the thin frame.

When Irene finally spoke, her voice was so low that Jeannie had to strain to hear the words. "Did he tell you about the baby?"

The younger woman nodded as she murmured, "Yes."

There was another long silence, more trembling. "I lost it," came the anguished whisper and Jeannie could feel the hot tears moistening the front of her blouse. Pulling Irene closer, she kissed the top of the distraught woman's head, her own tears starting to slide silently down her cheeks.

# # # # #

Eventually Mike opened his eyes and looked at his partner. He took a deep breath. Steve tried a warm smile and a tilt of his head. Mike blinked slowly, laying a hand on top of the one still resting lightly on his chest.

"How's your head?" the younger man asked gently.

Mike's eyebrows rose slightly in a facial shrug and his exhaled breath was uneven. "Hurts."

Steve rubbed his chest softly. "They want to take you for a cat scan. Can I tell them you're ready?" Mike stared at him, expressionless. Then he closed his eyes and nodded slightly. "Good. I'll go tell them. Be right back."

Steve got up from the bed and crossed quickly to the door, disappearing into the corridor. Mike stared at the ceiling once again, trying very hard to get his crushing despair under control. Part of him wanted so much to get to Irene, to be with her, but the other part of him was overwhelmed with guilt and shame. He gritted his teeth, the pain in his head dangling dark spots before his eyes. With an anguished sigh, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink even deeper onto the bed, battered, crushed and disconsolate.

# # # # #

" _Hello?"_

"Jeannie, it's Steve. They've just taken Mike in for a cat scan; I'm using the phone at the nurse's station so I gotta be quick. How's it going over there?"

" _Oh, Steve, she's in pretty bad shape. Not, not physically; I mean, she's pretty beaten up but, oh god, Steve…"_

"I know, I know. Same here. Ah, Mike remembered…"

" _Oh my god!"_

"No no, it's okay, he, ah, he remembered everything and he's, ah, he's coming to grips with it. It hasn't been easy but I'm glad he finally knows, you know…"

" _Well, Irene hasn't really opened up to me much, she's still dealing, you know… but I think she'll start talking eventually. We just need to be patient."_

"Yeah, same here. Well, ah, look, I'll let you go. I'm gonna stick around here for a bit, for as long as he needs me, but I'm gonna have to take off later this afternoon. There's this meeting that I gotta be there for… Do you think you'll be able to, you know, get away? If you can't, don't worry about it; I've already told Mike where you are and he's good with that, he really is."

" _You sure?"_

"Yeah, I think he's gonna want some time to himself to, you know, sort things out."

" _Yeah. I'm, ah, I'm not sure; I don't want to push Irene, you know? But I don't want to just leave her either."_

"Well, play it by ear. They have to call the shots right now."

" _Yeah. Okay, well, ah, tell Daddy I love him, okay?"_

"Will do. And if it comes up, tell Irene that Mike's been asking about her. Just do what you think is best, hunh?"

" _Sure."_ A heavy sigh. _"Take care of yourself too, all right?"_

A soft, appreciative chuckle. "You too."

# # # # #

"Well, there's still no bleeding into his brain, so if everything's okay after tomorrow morning's scan, they're gonna let him go home."

"That's great news," Bob Wilson said sincerely as he maneuvered the dark blue Galaxie around the corner, letting the steering wheel slide back through his hands. "I dropped in to see Irene today too, but Jeannie was still with her and I didn't want to interrupt them. But they're gonna let her go home tomorrow too." He paused as he stopped at a red light, glancing across the front seat. "Do, ah, do you think Mike wants to see her?"

Steve's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Well, when I was talking to Irene yesterday… I don't know, I, ah, I got the feeling that she was upset with herself for letting him walk into the ambush… you know, about not being able to warn him." He snorted mirthlessly. "It sounds crazy, I know, but…" He sighed heavily, frustrated, as the light turned green and he stepped on the gas.

Steve redirected his worried stare out the windshield. "I got the same impression when I was talking to Mike this morning, that he feels guilty about her getting jumped, like he could've prevented it somehow…"

Wilson swung the car to the curb and braked. He shifted into park and switched the engine off, then turned to look at his colleague. They shared a commiserative smile, then Wilson gestured to the building on their right with his chin. "Shall we?"

They got out of the car and approached the Thanh Long Restaurant. "She wanted to meet here," Wilson explained as they reached the door, "so no one she knows'll see her."

Steve snorted and nodded as he preceded Wilson into the small mom-and-pop diner, still not sure who they were meeting. It was early evening, and the place was almost full. Wilson stepped beside him, his eyes scanning the room, then started towards the back.

As they got to a table and its solitary occupant, a throaty, very familiar voice cut through the babel. "Well, sonovabitch, I can't believe it. Assistant Inspector Steve Keller. Long time no see."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 12**

"You two know each other?" Wilson asked as his stare moved from the woman at the table to the man standing beside him.

A grin lit her face and she chuckled sexily. Steve, whose eyebrows had shot into his hairline, coughed, clearing his throat, but before he could say anything, she announced, "We spent one glorious night in a hotel room together, didn't we, Steve?"

"Ah, what?" a startled Wilson blurted out as his homicide colleague sputtered, "That's not exactly true!"

The brunette's laughter was enough to make several heads in the small diner turn in their direction. She gestured at the two chairs opposite her. "You'd better sit down before we call any more attention to ourselves," she admonished but a playfulness remained in her voice.

Wilson's eyes snapped back and forth between the two as they sat, his entire face a confused mask. "Okay, will one of you…?"

Shaking his head and gesturing across the table, Steve said with an ironic grin, "Sergeant Bob Wilson, Beverly Landau."

The striking brunette's wide grin slid smoothly from Steve to the man beside him. She extended her right hand across the table. "Sergeant, so very nice to meet you. Please call me Beverly."

With a courtly smile, Wilson shook her hand. "Thank you, Beverly. Please call me Bob."

"That I will do, Bob." As her warm and saucy smile returned to Steve, so did Wilson's still confused visage. "So… will one of you please tell me…?"

Beverly wrinkled her nose. "Why don't you let him off the hook, Steve?"

With a sigh, but unable to mask his pleased smile, Steve looked down, almost embarrassed. "Remember that guy who killed three pros- " He caught himself, glancing at Beverly from under a lowered brow, "ah, sex trade workers with a knife a few years back? Well, Beverly was his last slashing victim and the reason we caught him."

"Unh-hunh," Wilson said slowly, looking from Steve to Beverly, "but that doesn't explain –"

"The night in the hotel?" she tossed out suggestively.

Flashing her a peeved look, Steve said quietly, "The guy knew where she lived so we had to move her into a safer location, and all the department could afford at the time was The Kennedy down on -"

"That dump?" Wilson exclaimed, eyebrows on the rise as he looked to Beverly for confirmation.

Trying to keep a straight face, she nodded. "It was so romantic," she sighed with a throaty chuckle, turning her focus back to the young Homicide inspector. "So, Steve, how have you been? You and Mike still partners?" she asked pleasantly, only to see his warm smile quickly disappear. She sat back, her gaze snapping back and forth between the two police officers, suddenly unsure what to say next.

Wilson, who had watched the exchange and seen the change in tone, shifted his stare from Steve to the brunette, offering quietly, "That's, ah, I think that's the reason we're here."

Now thoroughly confused, she tilted her head as she studied his face. "What do you mean?"

Wilson leaned forward, his forearms on the table and his hands folded. He was just about to elaborate when a young Vietnamese waiter approached. Beverly glanced up at him and smiled, then looked across the table. "Are you two hungry? I can recommend the shrimp salad rolls and the green tea?" Both men nodded and she did the same to the waiter who smiled gratefully as he picked up the menus and disappeared.

She turned her attention back to Wilson. "You were about to say?" she prompted, tossing a worried glance at Steve, who was looking down.

"Beverly, Captain Clarke told me that you might be able to help us, but that's all the information he gave me. And the reason Steve and I are here tonight… well, I know it hasn't been in the papers as yet, but is it possible you heard about the two people who were assaulted, and the woman was raped, on Eddy the night before last?"

Her brows knitting tightly, her eyes slid from Wilson to Steve and back again. "Yes, I do, but how did you know that I know?"

"I didn't," Wilson told her, "but from what Captain Clarke told me, he seemed to… insinuate that you might."

"Oh, I see," she said sharply, "once a street-walker, always a street-walker, hunh? Ear to the ground, knowing what's going on in the back alleys and the flophouses? Is that it?"

"I don't think that's exactly what he meant. I think he meant because of your work with COYOTE*."

Steve had looked up and was studying her. "I thought you got out of the business," he said, his voice flat and slightly accusatory. He could feel her defenses snap up.

"I did," she shot back, suddenly irritated, "but that doesn't mean I left everything behind. There's a lot of girls being seriously abused out there, and I'm not just talking physically, and we're working to end that, or at least make things a little better." She took a deep breath and calmed down. "But what's that got to do with the assaults the other night?"

Wilson glanced at Steve before asking, "Well, I'm going on a hunch here, but have there been any assaults on prostitutes in the past few weeks, or months? And I'm not talking johns just getting a little aggressive, I'm talking full-blown rapes."

Beverly sat back, dropping her hands into her lap, and studied them both. "You know there have."

Wilson shook his head slowly. "No, we don't know that, Beverly. Steve's in Homicide and I'm from Robbery. Rapes and assaults aren't our department." He paused. "Were these, ah, _incidents_ reported?"

Beverly's eyes were sliding back and forth between the two men once more. "Of course they were."

"And do you know if anything was done about them?"

She sat back and her face relaxed; a tiny smile surfaced. "Oh, so that's what this is about? You think the assault on Eddy the other night is somehow tied to the rapes and assaults on the, ah, the _working girls_? So, what, does that mean the stakes are higher now because it wasn't just whores that were roughed up this time? It was normal upstanding citizens this time so more attention is to be paid?"

"It was Mike," Steve said coldly and she froze, her eyes snapping to his face.

"What?" she asked softly after several long silent seconds.

"The assault on Eddy the other night? The woman who was raped is Bob's partner Irene, and the man who had his skull fractured by a 2x4 is her fiancé… Mike."

Inhaling sharply, Beverly sagged where she sat and a hand shot to her mouth, her suddenly tear-filled eyes boring into his. "Oh my god, I didn't know," she breathed. "Is he going to be all right?"

Softening, knowing she was sincere in her concern, Steve offered a small encouraging smile. "He's doing okay, he's gonna be fine."

She stared at him, as if making sure he was telling the truth, then her eyes shifted to Wilson. "Your partner… oh, god, I can't imagine what she's going through…" She reached across the table and put her hand on his. "Have you seen her?"

Wilson nodded, smiling warmly. "I saw her yesterday. She's, ah, she's pretty fragile right now, they beat her up pretty good. But she's a strong woman… I'll think she'll be okay…"

"Oh, honey, she'll never be _okay…_ " she whispered gently as Wilson's eyes met hers and he stared at her in worry.

Nodding, Beverly squeezed his hand once more then sat back. The waiter quietly approached their table with a large tray and transferred the teapot, cups, two plates of salad rolls and two small bowls of peanut dipping sauce onto their table. As he retreated back towards the kitchen, the trio at the table sat silently, their appetites suddenly gone.

Beverly eventually broke the gloom by addressing Wilson. "So, Bob, what did you want to talk to me about?"

Glancing down and clearing his throat, Wilson leaned over the table once more. "Well, from what I can figure out, Captain Clarke seems to think there might be some kind of connection between what happened to Mike and Irene the other night, and what you've just told us have been some assaults against, ah, against…" He cleared his throat again, obviously groping for the correct word to use and coming up short.

Beverly studied him, a small smile playing over her lips. Steve was watching Wilson sideways; even he couldn't resist a low chuckle. Wilson's glance to them both was filled with genial embarrassment.

Laughing gently, Beverly reached out and touched his hand again. "Relax, Sergeant, for brevity's sake, why don't we just call them 'my girls', okay? It'll help move things along."

Snorting awkwardly, Wilson nodded. "Thanks. Anyway, we're here to see if there _is_ some connection between these incidents. We need you to tell us what you know about the assaults against… your girls."

Smiling briefly at the sergeant's discomfort, Beverly glanced at Steve as she leaned forward. She looked down, seeming to collect her thoughts, then placed her hands flat on the table.

"There have been three in the past month, that I know of and that were reported. But I know of two others that weren't reported. But none of them were near Eddy, they've all been around Broadway."

"What types of assaults were these? I mean, were they all sexual assaults or…?"

"Oh, they were all sexual, and they were all violent. That's why they were reported."

"Have you personally talked to all these girls?" Steve asked, breaking his silence.

Beverly nodded. "One of the girls had her arm broken, another had a dislocated jaw. None of them knew what to do… so I told them they had to report it, you know, be _upstanding citizens._ A lot of good that did them."

"Why do you mean?"

"I mean, nothing's been done, Steve. Not one thing that we know of. That's why the other two girls didn't come forward. I mean, what's the point?"

Steve and Wilson exchanged sober looks then the Robbery sergeant looked across the table. "Do you think any of the girls would be willing to talk to us, you know, to give us some detail…?"

Beverly studied him for a couple beats then shook her head slightly. "Well, I can ask but, from the way they been treated up till now, I'd be surprised if they agreed. They know just how low 'working girls' are on the totem pole. And everyone knows these girls bring it on themselves, don't they? I mean, come on, look what they do for a living!" Her voice had taken on a bitter, furious edge and she stopped herself, her eyes blazing.

"Come on, Beverly, you know everyone doesn't think like that," Steve countered, tempering his own words with a disarming smile then watched as her anger melted slightly and she shook her head with a smile and a snort.

"Sorry, soapbox time." She turned her soft brown eyes back to Wilson. "Bob, you might be right, and I'm sorry, it's just… you know…"

Wilson smiled warmly. "Don't worry, I understand. But can you think of anything that can help us."

Beverly picked up one of the salad rolls and dipped it in the peanut sauce. "All right, I'll help you if you help me." She bit into the roll, her eyes never leaving Wilson's.

"How can we help you?"

She chewed and swallowed before answering, making them wait. "I want you to promise that they don't get swept under the rug anymore… that these assaults get investigated just like any other. No more of that double standard bullshit…"

Nodding, a smile building, Wilson reached for a salad roll. "You have our word," he said confidently as he dipped the roll and brought it to his mouth.

She grinned at him. "Thank you." Her smiled disappeared. "So what do you want to know, the facts or the rumours?"

Both men froze and exchanged a glance before turning their troubled stares in her direction. "Let's start with the facts," Wilson suggested.

"All right," she said, taking another bite of the salad roll as Steve set the three small handleless cups out and poured the tea. "This is what I know: there have been five violent assaults in the past six weeks. Every time the victim was dragged into an alley by two large and very strong men. Their eyes and their mouths were taped closed and they were… let's be civilized here… they were _violated_ , viciously.

"They were kicked and they were punched and they were left where they were taken. The men wore black, they didn't talk and they didn't smoke… none of the women smelled cigarette smoke on their clothes or their breath… They were quick and they were thorough and they are making the, ah, the _working girl_ community here very scared and very angry." She sat back and stared across the table.

Steve set his tea cup back down as the silence lengthened. He sighed before meeting her eyes, uncomfortable with the unspoken allegations that the SFPD really did have a double standard. Quietly, he said, "Okay, those are the facts… what are the rumours?"

A cold smile appeared as she stared at him unblinking. "That they're from back east… that they're here because of some deal with the FBI… and they're Russian."

##############

*COYOTE – Cast Off Your Old Tired Ethics – Founded in 1973 in California, COYOTE works for the repeal of the prostitution laws and an end to the stigma associated with sex work.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 13**

Wilson glanced at Steve, who was staring at Beverly and she at him. Her eyes moved slowly to the older sergeant and she waited for his response. "How do you know this?"

A small smile finally emerged and she blinked slowly. "Let's just say I have friends in the department just like you do."

"Ah, would you care to elaborate on that?" Wilson asked carefully.

Beverly picked up her tea cup and took a sip. "Sorry, I'm afraid I can't do that. I have sources I have to protect just like you." Her eyes slid back to Steve, who had been studying her with a slight frown; he knew she wanted to tell them more but there was so much she needed to protect.

"So what are you thinking?" he asked her as he picked up a salad roll and dipped it in the sauce.

Relaxing, knowing that her words held weight and that she might actually be doing something good for both parties, she rested her forearms on the table and reached for a second roll. With a facial shrug, she said, "Well, I'm not a cop so I don't think like a cop," she glanced up at them both and smiled briefly, "but I'll tell you what I've heard. Something about a place called Brighton Beach in Brooklyn and a lot of not so very nice guys. And somebody pissing somebody else off. So, what? With the FBI involved, it's gotta be something like…oh, what do you call it? When they give somebody a new name and all that…?"

"Witness protection," Wilson offered, staring across the table with a newfound respect as Beverly bit into the salad roll. He looked sideways at his colleague. "Sound plausible to you?"

Steve nodded, glancing at Wilson before turning his attention back to the brunette opposite. "Makes sense. So what are we talking here, the FBI sends someone from New York, some Russian, out here in witness protection and he ends up being a rapist preying on prostitutes?"

Wilson shook his head as he picked up the third tea cup. "I'm thinking we have a lot of work to do, Steve, a hell of a lot of work." He raised the cup towards Beverly. "Miss Landau, I don't know about you or Steve here, but for the first time since I got that phone call about Irene and Mike, I'm getting my appetite back. And I'm gonna need more than just these rolls. Dinner's on me, what dya both say?"

Steve looked at Beverly and smiled, raising his eyebrows questioningly. She smiled at them both and nodded.

# # # # #

The dark blue sedan pulled to the curb under a streetlamp on the dark deserted street and Steve quickly got out of the back, opening the passenger side front door and extending his hand. With a broad grin, Beverly turned on the seat, put both feet on the sidewalk and took his arm, allowing the gallant young cop to help her to her feet. She leaned back into the car. "Thanks again, Bob, and, like I told you both, if I think of anything else, or hear anything else, I'll call you right away."

"You've welcome, Beverly, and thank you again… for me and Irene." His smile slipped slightly at his partner's name and her heart skipped a beat.

She turned to Steve and stared into his eyes; he smiled warmly back. "Please tell Mike I hope he makes a speedy recovery. Tell him I want to beat his ass at gin rummy again," she laughed softly.

"I will," he said with a chuckle. "Thank you. I promise Bob or I'll keep you up to date about things on our end too."

She nodded with a grim smile.

"You want me to walk you to your door?"

She pointed over her shoulder. "It's right there," she chuckled, indicating the glass-door entrance to a highrise. "I think I'll be okay."

"All right," he nodded agreeably. She started to turn away and he grabbed her arm and stopped her. "Thank you… for Mike and Irene."

She smiled at him warmly, leaned close and gently kissed his cheek. "Take care of yourself." She turned and walked away. He watched till she'd entered the apartment building then got into the front seat. He glanced at Wilson as he slammed the door, loudly releasing a deeply held breath.

"So, what do you think?" Wilson asked as he pulled the sedan away from the curb.

"I think you were right. We have a lot of work to do." He paused. "What do you think we should do? I mean, if it's something the FBI's involved in, we gotta tread very carefully."

"That's for sure. So what do you think? They sent this guy out here from New York because of – what? He's an informant? Material witness? And then this guy turns out to be some kinda maniac rapist? And are there two of them? It seems all the victims told Beverly there were two rapists, right? So who's the other guy? Is he from New York as well or someone he picked up here?"

Steve's eyes widened as he cocked his head and sighed. "So, what, the FBI don't know about it? Or, worse, they do and they're keeping their hands off him because they need him and don't want him locked up? Or even worse, he takes off on them and they lose him?"

Wilson was nodding. "Which begs the question – if they do know, and they're not doing anything about it, is it because all his victims, till two nights ago, have been prostitutes?" The thought was repugnant to both men and an angry silence filled the car.

"You know, maybe the attacks on the prostitutes and the attack on Mike and Irene _aren't_ connected," Wilson postulated quietly. "I mean, from what Beverly said, all the victims were alone when they were grabbed. Why then would he change his M.O. and grab Irene when she was with Mike?"

"Maybe they didn't see him," Steve offered, studying the other man's profile. "Mike told me he'd stopped to tie his shoes and Irene had walked on ahead. Maybe when they grabbed her at the entrance to the alley they didn't see him."

Wilson nodded once with a facial shrug. "That's possible, I guess. But what about the fact that all the previous attacks were on or near Broadway. Why change location?"

"Maybe he didn't want to press his luck?" Steve threw out. "Like you said, we have a lot to do, but at least we have someplace to start. And I don't know about you, but I'm glad to have something to do because I know they're not going to let either of us investigate this and I was gonna start climbing the walls."

Wilson snorted with a laugh. "Boy, you can say that again. Oh, jeez, I'm driving you back to the hospital and I didn't even ask you if that's where you wanted to go."

Steve chuckled. "Yes, it is, actually. My car's there and I'd kinda like to look in on Mike."

"Yeah, I hear ya. I think I'll swing by the General on my way home too. Irene probably won't want to see me but it'll make me feel better just checking in on her."

Steve looked out the side window and sighed. "Yeah, I understand that."

# # # # #

Steve crossed the dimly lit ICU, having first stopped at the nurse's station for an update. He glanced at his watch again: 10:12. He was glad there were no visiting hour restrictions.

He stopped in the doorway; the tiny room was as dark as possible but there was still enough light to easily see the bed's occupant. Beneath the gauze bandage still encircling his head, Mike's eyes were closed; his hands were folded across his stomach.

As he crossed quietly to the side of the bed, Mike stirred and opened his eyes. He blinked slowly a couple of times, trying to focus. Steve put his hand on top of Mike's and squeezed. The older man's gaze finally found Steve's face and a slight, sad smile slowly developed.

"Hi," Steve said softly, returning the smile, "how are you feeling?"

"I'm okay." Mike's voice was low; he seemed drained, as if the spark that was Mike Stone was gone. As they stared at each other, Steve gently shook Mike's hands; he sighed quietly, and Mike closed his eyes. The healing had not yet begun.

After several long seconds, Mike opened his eyes again. "Did you get anywhere?"

Steve stood up a little straighter and nodded. "Yeah, yeah, we might've. We, ah, we met with someone who might be able to –"

"We?" Mike interrupted, his brow furrowing.

"Oh, uh, me and Bob."

Mike nodded, closing his eyes. "Of course," he said with a low snort and a slight shake of his head. He opened his eyes again. "Has he seen Irene?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah, ah, yesterday." Steve didn't want to have to tell Mike that Irene was refusing to see anyone except Jeannie, and he also didn't want to mention anything about Beverly Landau right now either.

Mike nodded again. "What did you find out?"

"Well, not much, but we have a place to start anyway." He smiled encouragingly. "Look, I want you to concentrate on getting better and then I'll bring you into the loop, okay?" he lied smoothly. He had no intention of telling Mike what he knew, or would learn over the course of the investigation, until it was over. There was enough on his partner's plate as it was; he wasn't going to add to the burden.

"So, ah," he continued, changing the subject, "they told me you're scheduled for another cat scan tomorrow morning and if it's clear as well, I get to take you home. That's pretty good news, hunh?"

Mike's eyebrows rose slightly. "I guess."

Steve smiled sadly. "It's gonna take time, Mike, we both know that. And I'm not just talking about your head… But you're not alone, you know that, right?" He waited till the older man nodded. "And you've gotta be strong for Irene… and you know that too, right?"

Mike took a deep breath, his gaze sliding away, but eventually he nodded once more.

Steve shook his hands again and his smile got a little wider. "Look, ah, I'm gonna let you get to sleep and I'm gonna go home and do the same. I'll be here tomorrow morning before they take you for the scan, okay? And then take you home when it's over." His persistent optimism was hard to resist, and he saw the ghost of a smile curl the older man's lips. Patting Mike's hands, he started to turn away.

"Steve… thank you."

The younger man swallowed heavily, then smiled once more. "You don't have to thank me for anything, ever," he said gently, "but you're welcome. Get a good night's sleep, will ya? And I'll see you in the morning."

He felt Mike's eyes follow him to the door and he turned back briefly, with a wink, before he left.

# # # # #

He was leaning against the headboard, the phone balanced on his stomach and a beer on the bedtable. He had enough time to pick up the bottle and take a sip before the call was answered.

" _Hello?"_

"Jeannie, it's Steve."

" _Hi, where are you? At home?"_

"Yeah, I just got in. I stopped in to see Mike on the way home."

" _How was he? I talked to him earlier… he sounded pretty low. I'm worried about him."_

"Don't be, Jeannie. He, ah, he's Mike, you know? He's got to process this just like he does everything else. He'll get through it. I think he's more worried about Irene and what this has done to her than anything else."

" _Yeah, you may be right. He kept asking me about her."_

"How is she?"

" _Not good. She still won't talk to me about what happened, but I think me just being there is doing her some good. At least I hope so…"_

"Oh, I don't think there's any doubt about that. So, listen, ah, they're gonna let your Dad out tomorrow morning if his cat scan is still negative. I'm gonna head over there first thing in the morning before they take him in for the scan and if he gets the go-ahead, I'll bring him home. Are you gonna go back in to see Irene?"

" _Yeah, I told her I would and she seemed to want that. God, I feel so bad for her, Steve, and I don't know how to get her to talk about it…or even if she_ should _, for that matter. I just don't know what to do…"_

"I don't think anybody really does. I think you just do what you're doing and let her lead the way."

" _Yeah, I think you're right. Hey, what happened at your meeting tonight? Did you find out anything?"_

"Well, we have a lead which we're gonna follow up on but I don't want to go into any details, you know how it is."

" _Only too well."_ There was a heavy sigh. _"You be careful, all right?"_

"I always am. Look, I'll let you go. We both need to get some sleep, I bet. I'll call you tomorrow after, fingers crossed, I get your Dad home, okay?"

" _Sounds like a plan. Get a good sleep. Talk to you tomorrow."_

Steve hung up the phone and put it on the table, picking up his beer at the same time. He thought about everything that had happened in the past 48 hours, how so many lives had changed, how many dreams had died.

And he made a promise, to Mike and to himself, that he wouldn't stop until whoever was responsible for all this pain and heartache was hunted down and caught, dead or alive.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 14**

"Okay, let's get you sitting up, slow and easy, and I want you to let me know if you experience any dizziness or loss of vision, or a sharp pain in your head, okay?"

Mike exhaled loudly and nodded carefully.

"All right, let's give this a try," Dr. Murphy said encouragingly and, with an intern assisting on his patient's other side, took Mike's left arm and helped him sit up after he swung his legs over the side of the bed. It was the first time he was vertical since he woke up.

Steve was standing near the door, watching anxiously. Mike was looking down, his face expressionless.

"How do you feel?" Murphy asked, and Mike nodded slowly again.

"Okay," he answered quietly, almost holding his breath.

"Good, good," Murphy replied with a smile. "You feel like getting to your feet?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, on three." Murphy glanced at the intern and the younger man nodded. "One… two… three."

With their help, Mike slid carefully off the bed, still looking down, staggering slightly when both feet hit the floor. Steve caught his breath, his eyes boring into the top of his partner's still bandaged head. The physicians continued to hold his arms as the older man got his bearings, then he looked up at the neurologist and smiled slightly.

"It's all good?" Murphy asked, eyebrows raised.

Mike nodded slightly once again. "Yeah, feels good."

"No dizziness, no dark spots, no pain?" A slow head shake and a gentle smile was his answer. "Good," Murphy nodded, taking his hand away and the intern did the same. His eyes flicked towards Steve. "So, Mike, I'll let Steve here give you a hand getting dressed and when you're done, and if you still don't have any dizziness or any other problems, I'll sign your paperwork and you're out of here. But –"

"I know, I know," Mike interrupted slowly but with humour in his tone, "straight home and straight to bed. I remember your lecture."

"Good," Murphy laughed as he slapped Mike lightly on the arm and headed towards the door with the intern, shooting a toothy grin at Steve as he went by.

As the door closed on the physicians, Steve moved closer to his partner. "You sure you're okay?" he asked softly, worry still evident in his eyes.

Mike looked at him affectionately with a slight nod. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just want to get out of here."

"I can understand that." Steve turned back to the door to pick up the overnight bag he had dropped there. "Oh, I, ah, I didn't bring the fedora. I thought it would look kinda weird sitting on top of the bandage, so I brought your baseball cap instead and let it out so it'll fit nicely, I hope," he finished with a chuckle. "So, you just lean against the bed and I'll be your valet."

# # # # #

" _Hello?"_

"Jeannie, yeah, hi, it's Steve. Can you talk?"

" _Yeah, I'm at the nurse's station, but it's an extra phone. Is he home?"_

"Yeah, that's where I'm calling from. He's up in his bedroom sleeping right now. The trip home and getting up all those stairs was exhausting but he managed to do it all without getting dizzy… although it took us about half an hour just to get from the car to his bedroom." There was a low but relieved chuckle that was mirrored on the other end of the line. "How are you doing over there?"

" _Well, she still hasn't shown any signs of talking to me about it, but we went down to the cafeteria for breakfast and I think they're going to let her out this afternoon. I'll let you know."_

"Sounds good."

" _So, you gonna stay there with Mike? I'll have to take Irene home and I don't think it's wise to just drop her off and leave her, do you?"_

"No, no, of course not. Bob is doing some… ah, some work at the Hall today and he's okay doing it on his own. So my day is free. I'll stay here with Mike and get him something for dinner. What time do you think you'll be home tonight?"

" _God, I have no idea. I don't want to leave Irene until she's comfortable being on her own. Steve, she might want me to stay the night? Could you stay overnight with Mike if that happened?"_

"Yeah, of course. The sofa's become a second home by now, so it's not a problem. Give me a call later and let me know what's going on, okay?"

" _You got it. I tell ya, Irene'll be thrilled to hear that Mike's at home. She's still so worried about him but, I don't know, I sort of get the feeling she doesn't want to see him right now, you know what I mean?"_

"I know exactly what you mean. Listen, ah, you take care of yourself and give Irene my love, okay? And I'll tell Mike I talked to you and what's happening over there."

" _Thanks, and tell him I love him, okay, and that I'm glad he's home?"_

"You bet. See you later."

# # # # #

Steve opened the door quietly and peered into the room. Mike, still fully clothed, opened his eyes and looked towards the door as Steve approached the bed. He started to sit up but Steve waved him down, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"How are you feeling?"

Mike smiled slightly. "Tired but good. My head hurts a little but it's not too bad."

"Good to be home, I bet?" The older man nodded. "Look, ah, I just got a call from Bob, he has some stuff he wants to run past me. Do you think you'll be okay on your own for a couple of hours while I go into the Hall? And I can pick us up something for dinner on the way back?"

"Yeah," Mike said with as much force as he could muster, "of course. I'm just gonna lie here and sleep, like Murphy told me to do. I'll be fine."

Steve squeezed his arm. "Any dinner requests?"

"Something soft and tasty. It still hurts to chew but god, I'm sick of the bland food in the hospital."

They both smiled. "You got it. I'll be back as soon as I can. And if you have any problems, call the office. I'll let the guys know where I am and that they might get a call."

# # # # #

"So, without tipping my hand to _anybody_ ," Wilson said, glancing around the almost empty cafeteria before his brown eyes settled once more on the man sitting on the other side of the small white Formica table, "I found a cop in Brighton Beach, _Knew Yawk_ ," he chuckled with a terrible Big Apple accent, "who is willing to talk to us, off the record, so to speak."

Still laughing, Steve's brow furrowed. "How in the hell did you track him down?"

"Well, you know we said last night that we probably needed to talk to someone from back east to see if they knew who had been sent out here in a W.P. program, and I spent most of the night trying to figure out how we could do that without, you know, calling up the feds and asking them directly," Wilson chuckled again. "Anyway, I remembered that Stan Baxter - down in Properties? You know him, right?"

Steve nodded as he picked up his coffee cup and took a sip.

"Well, I remembered that he said that he was a cop in Chicago for several years before he came out here. On a hunch, I asked him if he's ever had any dealings with the NYPD and he said he didn't, but there was a cop he knew in Chicago who'd been on the force in New York. So I put in a call to this guy and I explained - in very broad strokes, of course – what our take on all this was and what we needed, and he said he'd see what he could do, that maybe there was someone he could find that we could talk to."

Wilson shrugged and picked up his coffee cup. "I'm not expecting to hear from him till tomorrow at the very earliest, and I've got my fingers crossed, but who knows… Other than flying back there and knocking on doors, I think this is our best way to go right now, don't you think?"

Steve nodded, leaning over the table. "Absolutely. Listen, I'm sorry I couldn't give you a hand today –"

"Hey, don't worry about it," Wilson cut him off. "I'm just glad you and Jeannie are doing what you're doing, believe me. And I'm so happy to hear that Mike's home already. I know it's gonna be quite awhile till he gets back to work but it's a start, right?"

Smiling and nodding, Steve glanced at his watch. "Jeannie might have Irene home by now as well, I'm not sure. I talked to her a couple of hours ago and she said they might let her out today too."

"Yeah," Wilson said wistfully, looking down, "I called the hospital and talked to the doctor looking after her. She's still having a rough go of it…" He sighed, swallowing heavily. "I'm glad Jeannie's there for her…"

Steve studied the other man. He knew that he himself was having the easier time, if that's what it could be called, with Mike for just the simple fact that they were both men. It was impossible for Wilson to understand what Irene had gone, and was still going, through. Steve's heart went out to his forlorn colleague.

"Listen, ah, about those names that Beverly gave us? I think I can leave Mike on his own for a few hours again tomorrow if he feels up to it. You want to see if we can track some of them, or all of them, down and talk to them? I'm sure they can fill in some of the blanks that Beverly wasn't able to. What do you think?"

Nodding, Wilson was still looking down, rubbing a finger along the rim of his cup. Steve knew his mind was with his partner, and he wished there was something he could say to help balm the open wound. He didn't know Wilson all that well, but he did know that the older sergeant was a separated father of two who had waged war with the bottle and lost. It had cost him a promotion and a transfer and made him a pariah in some circles.

That was until three years ago when he had been partnered with Inspector Irene Martin and everything had clicked into place. He still did have the occasional beer but he'd gotten his drinking under control and pulled himself together, and though he and his wife were still estranged, he was spending more time with his kids and had actually become an important part of their lives once again.

Steve wasn't sure what would happen to Bob Wilson if he was no longer Irene's partner.

Wilson looked up from his study of the cafeteria tabletop and met the younger man's eyes. "I think I'd like that. I want to keep busy, you know… I want to keep my mind off of… everything."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Steve sighed, glancing at his watch. "Look, ah, I gotta get out of here. I promised Mike I'd pick up dinner for us and I want to make sure he eats something substantial before he's out for the night." He stood. "Why don't we meet in Homicide tomorrow morning at ten, track down the addresses for these women, if Vice has them, and see who we can talk to… and go from there…?"

When Wilson looked up, there were tears in his eyes and he blinked quickly, clearing his throat. "Yeah… yeah, that sounds like a plan… yeah…" He looked away, nodding slowly.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Steve said softly, patting Wilson on the shoulder as he turned and walked away. He knew he was lucky; he was going home to Mike. He knew their partnership would survive. Wilson had no such guarantee, and so much more to lose.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 15**

"Well, what can I do for you gentlemen?" the stocky, grey-haired lieutenant growled good-naturedly, looking up from the file on his desk as the sergeant and inspector suddenly loomed in his doorway.

"How ya doin', Barry?" Bob Wilson greeted him with a grin. "You know Steve Keller, right?" He jerked a thumb towards the man beside him, who raised his eyebrows and nodded.

"Are you kiddin'? I had this little whipper-snapper under my wing for, oh, what was it, Steve? Almost three years, wasn't it?!" Collier roared, getting up from his chair and coming around the desk, his right hand outstretched. As he got to the young inspector, he grabbed his hand and pumped it vigorously.

"Ah, it was, ah, actually two years and seven months, sir," Steve tried to answer but his voice shook as his body was rattled by the enthusiastic welcome.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about that," Wilson laughed softly, watching the amusing reunion.

Beaming, Collier released Steve's hand and took a step back, his sparkling blue eyes taking them both in. "So, what's up, fellas? This got something to do with work?" He turned towards his desk, circling back to his chair.

"Yes, sir, it does," Steve said, taking a step towards the furthest guest chair and taking a seat as Wilson closed the door and did the same.

"Drop the 'sir', Steve," Collier ordered with a smile as he sank heavily into the wooden armchair and leaned against the desk. "We've known each other too long for that kinda shit."

With a short laugh, and looking down, Steve shook his head. "Okay. Look, Barry, we need to get some information from you, if you've got it."

The lieutenant glanced at Wilson and shrugged. "Sure, if I've got it. What do you need?"

Wilson slipped his notebook out of his jacket pocket and flipped it open. "Addresses," he said, finding the right page and putting the notebook on the desk.

"Addresses? For who? What's this all -?" Collier started then stopped himself, his eyes sliding from the notebook to his two guests. "Wait a minute, does this have anything to do with what happened to Mike and Irene the other night?"

Like everyone else on the force, Collier was aware of the incident on Eddy; the information had been kept from the papers because the chief and commanders had pull with the local publishers. Like suicides, newspapers had a tacit agreement not to print the names of rape victims. But the fact that the woman in this case was a cop, and that another cop had been badly injured in the attack, had meant it was newsworthy; the SFPD brass wanted to make sure that it wasn't, and so far they had been successful.

Two sets of pained but determined eyes met his and he leaned back slightly, deflating. "I'm sorry, fellas, I forgot there for a minute. How, ah, how are they doing?" he asked almost contritely.

Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, Steve glanced up at Wilson before clearing his throat. "Okay, okay… they're doing okay. They're both home, which is good. It's gonna be a while till either of them is back at work but, ah, one step at a time, hunh?"

Collier shook his head slowly, his stare suddenly far away. "Helluva thing, hunh? Listen, uh, you give them both my best, hunh, tell 'em we want 'em back as soon as they're up to it, right?"

Nodding, Steve smiled gratefully. "Yeah, Barry, we will." He glanced up at Wilson once again, at the sergeant's unfocused stare. Steve pointed vaguely towards the notebook, wanting to change the subject. "About those addresses…?"

Collier shook his head slightly, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. "Oh, ah, yeah, what do you need?"

Lifting his head, Wilson caught and held Collier's stare. "We just need to get the addresses for five women we need to talk to. They're pros, and we're hoping they've been picked up a time or two and they have records."

Collier looked down at the notebook once again then up at the two pairs of expectant eyes studying him. He sat back deliberately, his hands on the arms of his chair.

"You guys aren't thinking of, I don't know, investigating what happened to Mike and Irene on your own now, are you?" he asked slowly, a singsong lightness to his voice that belied the seriousness of his words.

Resisting the urge to look at each other, the junior officers stared back, unblinking. Then Steve softly cleared his throat and looked down at the tile floor. "Now what makes you think that, Barry?" A small smile played across his lips as he looked up from under his brow at his former boss.

Collier crossed his arms and shrugged, bobbing his head and pursing his lips. "Well, it's not often I get a Robbery sergeant and a Homicide inspector in my office, working a case together," he explained facetiously, "if, ah, if that's what I'm to assume you're doing…?"

Wilson sat back in the wooden guest chair and crossed his legs. "Steve and I are just following up on a lead someone gave us… It's probably nothing, you know…"

Collier stared at him; Wilson looked back calmly, holding his ground. The lieutenant reached out slowly and, placing an index finger on the notebook, turned it around and slid it across the desk towards himself. His eyes, which had continued to pin the sergeant to his chair, moved slowly down to the five names on the page. He froze, and his eyes snapped back up.

Straightening up, Steve glanced at Wilson, and in that look they both knew that Collier had recognized the names. They looked at the lieutenant but said nothing.

Collier picked up the notebook and handed it back to Wilson, who looked worriedly at Steve as he closed it and put it back in his pocket. The lieutenant stood up and they did as well, sharing a confused and disappointed look.

Collier crossed around his desk to the door and put his hand on the knob. He turned to face the others. "What office are you working out of – Homicide or Robbery?"

Steve glanced at Wilson then back to Collier. "Uh, Homicide, I guess."

Nodding, Collier looked down. "Go back to your office and make yourselves busy. I'll have someone deliver it by interoffice mail when it's ready." He opened the door and stood back to let them exit. As Steve passed by him, he muttered, "Good luck."

# # # # #

"He didn't even write the names down," Wilson whispered as they walked down the corridor towards the stairs.

"I don't think he had to," Steve replied, equally softly. "I think he knows exactly who those women are, and I'm beginning to think Beverly may be on to something."

"You mean Collier knows about the rapes and that they haven't been properly investigated?"

"That's exactly what I mean. What do you think?" Steve opened the door to the staircase and stood back to let Wilson into the stairwell first.

"I think you might be right."

# # # # #

With a mug in each hand, Jeannie knocked softly on the door with her elbow then pushed it open with her hip, entering the large, comfy bedroom.

Wearing flannel pajamas and wrapped in a blanket, Irene was curled up against a mountain of pillows on her bed. She looked up with haunted eyes and smiled wistfully as Jeannie crossed to the bed, handing over one of the mugs before sitting on the armchair pulled close to the head. "Thank you," she whispered.

"I don't think I've drunk this much tea in my entire life," Jeannie chuckled as she settled in. "It's always been coffee in our house; even my mother was a caffeine freak."

Irene, both hands wrapped around the mug, took a sip then looked at the younger woman under knitted brows. "Did you talk to your Dad?"

Smiling warmly, Jeannie nodded. "He's happy to be home. He said he's sleeping a lot, which is exactly what the doctor wants him to do."

"Is Steve staying with him?"

Jeannie took a sip of tea and swallowed before nodding again. "Yep. Sleeping on the couch." Her gaze suddenly unfocused and her smile slipped slightly. "I'm so glad my Dad has him in his life," she said tenderly and her heart leapt when she saw Irene smile wistfully.

"They're so good for each other, aren't they?" the older woman whispered.

Jeannie grinned and chuckled. "They sure are." She stared at her father's fiancé, still disturbed by the cuts and bruises that continued to stand out against her pale skin.

Suddenly Irene's brow furrowed and she caught her breath. Jeannie quickly put her mug down on the bedside table as she shot to her feet, reaching out to take the cup from Irene's hands and putting it on the table as well.

The older woman squeezed her eyes closed and wrapped her arms around herself. Jeannie sat beside her on the bed and pulled her close. Irene began to shake, her breaths coming in strangled sobs.

Jeannie rocked her silently, fighting to hold in her own tears. Eventually the ragged breaths began to ease and the tense, trembling muscles began to relax. Irene laid her head against Jeannie's shoulder.

"I didn't hear him… the man who grabbed me?… I didn't hear him at all…"

Jeannie caught her breath, her heart starting to pound as she stroked Irene's arm. She had been waiting for this breakthrough and she didn't want to do anything to interrupt it.

"Mike had stopped to tie his shoelaces… I walked on ahead down the street… I turned around to say something to him and suddenly this hand was over my mouth… my head was pulled back and he grabbed the back of my coat… I couldn't move… I couldn't make a sound…" She caught her breath and swallowed heavily. "He dragged me backwards into the alley… I tried to fight him but he was bigger than I was and he pulled me off the ground… I tried to cry out, to your father… but he put his hand over my mouth and nose and I couldn't breathe…

"It was so dark, I couldn't see anything… he picked me up – he picked me up and slammed me down onto the ground… it knocked the breath out of me… but I fought him." She paused again and Jeannie felt her shudder. "Your father called my name… I knew he was looking for me and it scared me. Part of me wanted him to find me and part of me was afraid for him…"

Irene reached up and put a hand on Jeannie's, squeezing.

"I heard him call my name again… and then I heard it… I heard them hit him… it was so loud…" She sobbed and her body shuddered again. "I heard him fall… then suddenly there was another man standing over me… I started to fight and one of them hit me, hit me in the face… I could taste the blood… One of them held me down, pinned my arms to the ground… the other one pulled my skirt up and ripped my pantyhose…"

The trembling had returned and she got very quiet. Jeannie continued to stroke her arm.

"They took turns… it hurt so much but I didn't fight back… there wasn't any point, and I thought they would kill me… I thought Mike was –" She sobbed and put a hand over her mouth. "I don't know how long it lasted… I was numb… I just stared at the sky and I tried not to react…" The trembling started to subside. "They stood over me, I could feel them looking down at me… then one of them kicked me in the side… twice… I think I must have cried in pain, and he kicked me again… in the head… I didn't pass out but couldn't move, I was in so much pain… and then they just walked away…"

Irene began to cry, sliding down on the bed. Jeannie, silent tears coursing down her own cheeks, cradled the older woman in her lap, stroking her hair and rocking her as the heartbreaking sobs filled the room.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 16**

"He's sleeping again. We had a good dinner, I brought home some ravioli and focaccia from Mama's and he ate everything I put on his plate."

" _That's good to hear. Did he tell you I called him a couple of times today?"_

"Yeah."

" _I really want to spend time with him but I don't think I can leave Irene right now…"_

"That's okay, he understands. And to be perfectly honest, kiddo, I think not having you around is a good thing for him right now."

" _What do you mean?"_

"Well, I think he's having a hard time coming to terms with what happened. And I don't mean just what happened to Irene." There was a short, uncomfortable pause. "Jeannie, I really think he believes that Irene was attacked because he failed her –"

" _What?"_

"I know, I know, it's crazy, but I actually believe that's what he's thinking right now."

" _But, my god, Steve – he was unconscious, he was lucky he wasn't killed, the doctors told us. And he still thinks –"_

"Listen, I'm not sure if that's really what he thinks, I'm just speculating here. He hasn't said anything to me, it's just… Jeannie, I know him really, really well… most of the time I know what he's thinking…" Another pause. "I'm waiting for the right time to talk to him about it… and it's not that time yet. I want to him get better, physically, before I make him confront this, so…"

" _You know, you could be right… I'm getting the same kind of feeling from Irene…"_

"In what way?"

A loud, heavy sigh. _"She talked to me about the attack today… just, you know, the, the facts of what happened… it wasn't much but it was a start… but anyway, uh, she told me more than once that she wanted to warn Mike but she couldn't… I heard a lot of guilt…"_

"Did it help, do you think, her talking to you?"

" _I don't know… I hope so. She cried a lot but I think there's a lot more tears she still has to shed and a lot more she still has to deal with… even before she sees Mike, I'm pretty sure…"_

"Well, I'm glad you're there for her, Jeannie."

" _Yeah, I am too. Listen, ah, I better go, I've got a pot of tea steeping."_ A gentle chuckle. _"I swear, if I keep drinking this much tea, my kidneys are gonna start floating!"_

"You have a great night, and give Irene my love, okay? And tell her Mike is doing great."

" _I will. And tell Dad I love him too, okay? Tell him I'm gonna try and drop by tomorrow and see him, but I gotta play it by ear, okay?"_

"Yeah, I will. Take care."

" _You too."_

# # # # #

Wilson glanced up from the guest chair beside Steve's desk as the inspector entered Homicide and crossed the bullpen. "Great, I'm glad you're here. We're meeting with Tonya Parker in forty-five minutes and then Janet Riley after that. I haven't been able to get in touch with the other three yet. They're probably out on the streets."

Steve had stopped behind his chair and was waiting patiently for the sergeant to finish. "Good morning, Bob, how are you today?"

Wilson glared at him then froze for several long seconds. He closed his eyes and sighed loudly, and a wry smile managed to surface. "Sorry…" He opened his eyes and looked up contritely. "Good morning, Steve, I'm doing just fine, how are you doing? How's Mike?"

With a chuckle, Steve pulled out his chair and sat. "I'm doing great, thanks for asking, and so's Mike." Shaking his head in amusement, he picked up the notebook from in front of Wilson and looked at it. "You've been busy. Did you have some breakfast at least?"

Laughing with embarrassment, Wilson nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I had a cup a coffee and what I think was a day-old Danish." He leaned forward and snatched the notebook from Steve's hand with feigned annoyance. But there was an eagerness and playfulness in the move that was reminiscent of Mike; his heart skipped a beat. "But, that's not all. I got a call this morning from that guy in New York."

Wilson flipped back a couple of pages in the notebook. "Matthew Stewart. He has this, ah, this friend of his who works for the feds – he wouldn't say if the guy was actually with the Bureau or not – and he says he's willing to talk to us, but he won't do it over the phone." He looked up and met Steve's eyes, his eyebrows on the rise.

Steve leaned back in his chair. "He won't talk to us over the phone? So, what? He wants…?"

Wilson nodded, his lips pursed. "He'll only talk to us face to face."

"So we have to go to New York?!"

Shrugging, the sergeant sighed. "Well, that's the impression I got. I told him I'd have to talk to you first and get back to him, but from what I could suss out in our brief conversation this morning, this guy has the info we need, but he's very, very unwilling to spill over a phone line."

Steve leaned forward, his brow furrowing. "What, like he was worried the phone was tapped?"

"I got that impression."

The inspector looked away, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his hair and chuckled dryly. "How in the hell are we gonna get to New York? The department sure isn't gonna spring for it; we're not even supposed to be working on this."

"Yeah, I know. Well," Wilson said, getting up, snapping the notebook shut and putting it in his jacket pocket, "let's discuss this in the car, shall we? We have a date with a hooker."

# # # # #

Tonya Parker's right arm was still in a cast but the bruises on her face and arms were almost gone. She was sitting on the couch in her tiny living room, wrapped in a multi-coloured afghan, a haunted look in her pale blue eyes and a crumpled tissue in her left hand.

"I been roughed up by johns before, but never nothin' like that… never…" Her voice was so soft they had to strain to hear her.

Wilson was leaning forward. He reached out to put a hand on her forearm but she jerked away and he pulled his hand back. She looked at him apologetically with a tentative bitten-lip smile and he smiled back understandingly, nodding slightly.

"I know this is hard, Tonya," he said gently, "but if you can remember anything, and I mean _anything_ , about the men who did this to you, it would help us a lot."

Her frightened eyes looked from Wilson to Steve as she continued to worry her lower lip. She shook her head. "I don't remember anything, I'm sorry. Nothin'. They didn't say anything… anything at all…"

"Do you remember a smell maybe? Their breath, or off their clothes?" Steve asked softly. She shook her head. "Any unusual sounds? Or how about what they were wearing? Did you get any impression of what they were wearing?"

She just kept shaking her head. "They put tape over my mouth and my eyes… I'm sorry… I wish I could help you, I really do…"

Steve smiled warmly. "We know, we know." He glanced at Wilson and they both got to their feet. "Ms. Parker, thank you very much. We appreciate you seeing us."

Her frightened eyes shifted from one detective to the other. "You _are_ going to catch them, aren't you? The other cop I talked to, he didn't seem to care."

Wilson glanced at Steve then back to Parker. "We care – and we're going to get 'em. You have our word."

# # # # #

Moving slowly and carefully, Mike made his way up the stairs and into his bedroom. He had made the long trip to the kitchen to plug in the percolator that he knew Steve had filled for him that morning before he left. He was going to spend the afternoon reading, if he could. He had only been able to read for slightly more than a half hour at a time until the dizziness became too much, but it was getting a little better each day.

He was sleeping a lot, which was healing but which also meant he didn't have to think, didn't have to remember.

He stood just inside the door and looked around the familiar room. He put a hand to his head, lightly touching the thick gauze bandage that still encircled it. It would still be several days until the stitches were removed. But as long as he didn't move too quickly, the continuous ache in his head was bearable.

His gaze fell on a large paper bag near the foot of the bed. Frowning slightly, he crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed and picked the bag up, setting it on the floor between his feet. He opened it and looked inside, then reached in and pulled out his belt. He studied at it, realizing that it was one of the things salvaged at the hospital; they had cut his clothes off but slipped off his belt.

Putting it on the bed, he reached into the bag again and pulled out his black dress shoes. He froze, his gaze narrowing as he stared at them, at the laces that in his mind had been the cause of so much pain and grief.

With a roar of anger he threw the shoes across the room, one of them hitting the open bedroom door, the other sailing out onto the landing at the top of the stairs. Pain shooting through his skull, he dropped his head into his hands as tears of agony, both physical and emotional stung his eyes and fell onto the carpet between his feet.

# # # # #

Steve and Wilson walked into a busy Homicide and were crossing the bullpen when a voice cut through the din. "Steve, Bob!" Both men turned in the direction of the voice; Captain Rudy Olsen was standing in the doorway of Mike's office. He beckoned them over.

Glancing with furrowed brows at each other, they crossed the room and past the older man, who had stood back to let them enter then closed the door. "Have a seat," he said neutrally as he circled the desk to sit in Mike's chair.

Steve nodded over his shoulder towards the crowded bullpen. "What the hell's going on?"

As he sat, Olsen glanced up through the glass walls of the small office and chuckled. "Oh, you can ignore that; it's just the overflow from Bunco again. The Roma are back in town." He looked at Wilson and laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not forcing you back to Robbery, Bob."

With a relieved sigh, Wilson leaned forward. "Good. So what do you need, Captain?"

Olsen leaned back, his hands resting lightly on the desk, and looked down. Almost hesitantly, he looked back up. "First things first, okay? How are Mike and Irene doing?"

Steve glanced at Wilson before he sat back and crossed his legs. "Mike's at home and, ah, he's doing okay. He's following doctor's orders and getting a lot of sleep and doing everything he needs to to come back."

With a nod and a smile, Olsen said happily, "That's good to hear." He looked at Wilson.

Clearing his throat, the Robbery sergeant said quietly, "Well, I haven't seen her in a couple of days." He glanced at Steve. "Ah, Mike's daughter has been staying with her. She's, ah, she's having a hard time, from what I've heard."

All three men looked down as a melancholic silence started to lengthen, all thoughts elsewhere. Then Olsen sharply cleared his throat and they refocused. "Well, ah, I just want to tell you guys… well, I know what you're doing – hell, everyone knows what you're doing, we're not stupid… but I'm here to tell you that, well, for as long as it takes, you guys are a team, okay?"

It took several long seconds for Steve and Wilson, who had been staring at their superior with undisguised trepidation, to realize exactly what Olsen was telling them. When the older man raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly, they shifted in their chairs, the relief evident.

"The, ah… _official_ investigation isn't getting anywhere – there's just nothing to go on - but we're keeping a couple of men on it. So we're, ah, we're kinda counting on you two. So, ah, without going into any details… how's it going?"

He looked from Steve to Wilson. The younger officers glanced at each other then Wilson leaned forward. "Captain, we think we have a legitimate line of inquiry that we're pursuing… and we think it looks good. But it's, uh, it's gonna take some time to get where we want to go, if you know what I mean."

Olsen nodded, listening intently, trying to hear the words that weren't being spoken. He glanced at Steve before narrowing his focus on the older man. "What can I do to help?"

Steve and Wilson exchanged a look then Steve leaned forward and stared at the captain. "Rudy, one of us has to go to New York."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 17**

She turned the key in the lock and opened the heavy front door, stepping into a unusually quiet house. Closing the door softly, she put her purse on the table near the door, taking off her jacket and tossing it over the arm of the sofa. The warmly inviting smell of coffee wafted to her from the kitchen.

She tiptoed up the stairs, stopping in surprise to find one of her father's dress shoes upside down on the landing. She bent down to pick it up, noting peripherally that the master bedroom door was open. She stepped to the threshold; Mike, in khakis and a blue-checked shirt, was asleep on his bed, a hardcover book open, page down, on his stomach. His black-rimmed reading glasses were still in his right hand, which was lying on the bedspread.

As she took a step deeper into the room, the second shoe, on the carpet near the open door, caught her eye. She stooped to pick it up as well, her brow furrowing. She crossed quietly to the closet and as she opened the door to put them away she hesitated, remembering what Irene had told her about Mike stopping to tie his shoes when she was grabbed.

She sagged where she stood, closing her eyes and trying to keep her heartbroken sigh silent. She looked at her father sadly, knowing that the pain he was in wasn't all physical.

She put the shoes down silently, closed the closet door then crossed to the bed. There was an empty coffee cup on the bedside table beside a bottle of painkilllers. She stood quietly for several long seconds, watching the steady rise and fall of her father's chest and the still worrisome white bandage around his head, reluctant to disturb him. But she wanted to take only so much time away from Irene, so she reached out and gently laid a hand on his arm.

He stirred slightly under her touch, his eyes opening slowly. He was staring at the ceiling and he blinked several times before turning his head in her direction. It took a couple of seconds for him to register her smiling face, and he began to grin. "Jeannie," he said softly as he started to push himself up.

With a loving chuckle, she transferred her hand from his arm to his chest and tenderly pushed him back down. "No no no, don't get up, don't get up." She kneeled on the bed beside him. "I just came to see how you're doing."

Laying back but not taking his eyes from her, he reached up to take both her hands in his own. Above his obviously overjoyed grin, she could see the dark circles around his eyes and hoped her worry wasn't reflected in her own.

"I'm doing great," he said quietly, "I really am."

"Are you still in a lot of pain?"

He started to shake his head then stopped, remembering. "It's not too bad, as long as I don't do things like shake my head or nod too vigorously." He chuckled, trying to ease her fears. His smile disappeared. "Steve told me you're staying with Irene…" He glanced away and swallowed. "How is she…. uh, how is she doing?"

Jeannie smiled encouragingly. "She's… doing as well as expected right now, you know? She's worried about you –"

"She doesn't have to," he cut her off a little more vehemently than either of them was expecting. He seemed to catch himself and looked at her under a lowered brow apologetically. "I just mean… I'm doing fine, she doesn't have to worry about me."

Jeannie's smile didn't reach her eyes, which were staring at her father in concern. "I know you are… and I'll tell her, okay?"

He tried to smile optimistically, falling short; he settled for a careful reassuring nod. "So, ah, so can you stay for awhile?"

This time her grin was genuine. "You bet. It's close to dinnertime, you want me to whip something up for us?"

"You can stay for dinner?" His excitement was almost palpable.

"Sure can. I left a quiche for Irene; all she has to do is warm it in the oven. So why don't you lie here and read some more of your book while I see what's in the fridge and what I can put together."

His grin incapable of getting any wider, he nodded carefully again. "That sounds wonderful, sweetheart."

She started to get to her feet, tilting her head to try to see the title of the book. "What are you reading anyway?"

"Oh!" Mike said, picking up the novel and turning it so she could read the cover: _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy_ by John le Carré. "Steve got it for me. Speaking of which, make enough for him too."

"I will but he's not going to be home in time for dinner, I'm afraid." She leaned over and kissed him then started for the door. "I'll make enough for three and leave it in the fridge for him."

With a warm smile, he watched her disappear through the door and down the stairs. For a little while at least, he knew, life would have the appearance of being normal.

# # # # #

"Well, if we get the go ahead, it's gotta be you," Steve said, glancing across the front seat as the tan sedan crawled through traffic on Divisadero. "I really don't want to leave Mike for even a couple of days right now, you know…"

Wilson, who was going through his notebook, looked up and nodded. "Yeah, I kinda figured that; it's not a problem. I can do it." He paused, flipping pages, looking for something specific, it seemed. "Probably won't be for a day or two anyway, I bet."

He reached into his inside jacket pocket and took three mugshots out, laying them on the seat beside him; it was the three victims they hadn't been able to talk to yet.

Janet Riley had proven to be, like Tonya Parker, unable to provide them with any additional information about the men who had attacked her; their hopes were now pinned on the three women who had been able to return to the streets so soon after their ordeal.

"You know what's bugging me?" Steve asked, as he glanced down at the photos on the seat between them. "Both Parker and Riley told us they had their eyes and their mouths covered with tape so they couldn't see and couldn't shout. That didn't happen with Irene, did it?"

Wilson, who was frowning through the windshield, nodded. "Nope. And I know what you're saying; it's been bugging me too. That and the fact that the other attacks were all in this part of town and Mike and Irene were blocks from here."

"Yeah," Steve said slowly, "that too."

A silence filled the car.

"So, what? We're on a wild goose chase with this, do you think? That these incidents aren't related?" Wilson sighed heavily and pulled his stare away from the windshield and the bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Steve shook his head. "Well, even if they aren't, I want to solve them both, don't you?"

A smile starting to build, Wilson nodded.

" _Inspectors 8-1, please respond, Inspectors 8-1,"_ the metallic-like voice crackled from the police radio.

With a chuckle, Wilson snagged the mic, glancing at Steve with raised eyebrows. "Inspectors 8-1, go ahead."

" _Please call Sergeant Haseejian in Homicide."_

"10-4, Dispatch." Wilson hung up the mic, looking at Steve with curiosity. "Wonder what that's about?"

Steve shrugged. "I have no idea. I'll pull over as soon as I can. Try to find a payphone for me, will ya?"

"Will do." Wilson's eyes raked the street on both sides.

"You know, Mike knows where every downtown payphone is, can you believe that?"

"Yes, for some reason, I do!"

# # # # #

" _Homicide, Sergeant Haseejian."_

"Norm, it's Steve. What's up?"

" _Oh great, yeah, uh, you know a Beverly Landau?"_

"Uh, yeah, why?"

" _She called here looking for you, she wants you to give her a call. Do you have her number?"_

Steve was already cradling the receiver against his shoulder and reaching for the notebook in his pocket. "Yeah, I do, thanks, Norm. Later." He hung up and flipped through his notebook, finding what he was looking for. He fished another coin out of his pocket and fed it into the slot then dialed.

" _Hello?"_

"Beverly? It's Steve Keller."

" _Steve! Thanks for getting back to me so quickly."_

"Hey, no problem, what's up?"

" _Well, I don't know if this is what you want to hear, but there was another one."_

A brief pause. "Another what?"

" _Another assault… another rape, Steve, of one of my girls. It happened last week but I just found out about it."_

Steve held his breath. "When?"

He heard her take a deep breath. _"The same night as the attack on Mike and his fiancé."_

A couple of seconds of stunned silence. "What time did it take place, do you know?"

" _She says it was around midnight, maybe a little after."_

Steve caught his breath. "Did she tell you if they put tape over her mouth and her eyes?"

" _She says they did."_

"Do, ah, do you have her name? Can we talk to her?"

" _I already asked her. She said okay."_

"Great, that's great, Beverly. Ah, let me talk to Bob and I'll get back to you on that, okay?"

" _Okay."_

"Beverly, ah, thanks…"

" _Hey, it's for Mike, right? You take care."_

# # # # #

Steve yanked open the driver's side door and got in quickly, slamming the door behind him as he dropped his notebook onto the seat beside him. "There was another one," he said quickly without preamble.

Wilson frowned. "Another what?"

"Another attack, on another prostitute. Same M.O."

"When?"

"The same night that Mike and Irene were attacked, around midnight."

"You're kidding?"

"Nope. And they taped her eyes and her mouth."

"Shit." Wilson sighed heavily and dropped his head back onto the headrest. "Damn it, that doesn't help us at all, does it?"

"I think it does…"

Wilson's head came up sharply and he looked across the seat at Steve, who was staring at him with barely contained enthusiasm. "What are you getting at?"

"Well, I might be way out in left field on this, but hear me out… Our guys M.O. is they pull women into dark alleys, tape their eyes and mouths and assault them, viciously…"

"Right…"

"And they've been doing it, what, once a week or so…"

"Yeah, so…?"

"Their 'hunting ground' has been Broadway and the immediate area and they've been pretty consistent about that…"

"Unh-hunh…"

Steve took a deep breath, letting it out with a grim, mirthless smile. "What if… what if, for some reason that night, they weren't… _satisfied_ …? What if they were, I don't know, making their way home – or… somewhere – and they saw Irene, thought she was alone and grabbed her…?"

Wilson cocked his head, listening intently, his brows beginning to knit as his stare unfocused. "Maybe they'd used whatever tape they brought with them during the first assault…?" He looked up, eyes questioning. "I mean, maybe they're smart enough to know if they were caught with a roll of tape on them, dead bang. But if they only bring enough for that one… job…" He bobbled his head with a small shrug. "It sounds plausible to me…"

"Yeah," Steve said quietly, "it sounds plausible to me too."

A silence lengthened as they both contemplated the implications of what they were postulating.

"Okay," Steve said quietly, almost to himself, "so let's say, maybe they were… on their way home…? The first attack was just off Broadway, the second on Eddy near Van Ness… so they were heading south…" He shrugged slightly, meeting Wilson's stare evenly. "Maybe at least one of them lives, I don't know, South of Market…? Lower Haight.? Potrero…?"

Wilson nodded. "It's a start, partner, it's definitely a good place to start." He smiled, and for the first time in days, it reached his eyes.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 18**

"Fifteen-two, fifteen-four… and the rest don't score," Mike said with a flourish, staring at his cards through his black-rimmed glasses; Jeannie groaned theatrically, rolling her eyes. He tossed the cards on the drop-leg tray that was over his legs on the bed. He was lying back on the pillows piled against the headboard; Jeannie was sitting cross-legged on the bed facing him off to the side. He picked up the back red peg on the cribbage board and moved it four spaces ahead of the front one then reached for his crib hand.

"Oh, look at this," he said with a chuckle, rearranging the cards. "Another dozen." He looked up and grinned at her. "I win again."

With a groan of feigned annoyance, she reached for the cards scattered on the tray table and stacked them. "One more – you've got to give me a chance to win at least one game – and then I've got to go, okay?"

"That's fine with me, but do you really think you're going to win?" he laughed, laying his head back against the pillow and closing his eyes.

As she shuffled the deck, she stared at him worriedly. "Are you okay?" she asked quietly and he opened his eyes.

He nodded very slightly and smiled. "Unh-humh. Just getting a little tired… but not tired enough to let you beat me."

"Ha ha ha," she snorted, looking down at the cards in her hands. She hesitated for a beat and he closed his eyes again. "So, ah," she began quietly, looking up at him from under her brow, "why was one of your dress shoes out in the hall and the other one against the door?"

She watched as his eyes opened slowly, his expression neutral. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she started again, raising her head and staring straight at him, "why did it look like your dress shoes were thrown across the room?"

Not moving, he looked at her for several long seconds then carefully and slowly shook his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Maybe Steve tripped over them earlier when he was leaving and didn't have time to pick them up." It was a spectacularly weak explanation and they both knew it, but his almost ferocious stare told her that he didn't want to continue with this subject.

Nodding, her own expression revealing nothing, she looked down at the cards as she began to deal. She could feel his eyes boring into the top of her head. Suddenly she smiled. "You know, I kinda liked it when you let me win the occasional game when I was a kid."

He relaxed suddenly, picking up the cards and chuckling. "I haven't _let you win_ since you were ten."

"That's what I mean," she laughed, rearranging the cards in her hand and dropping two onto the tray table.

They played the hand; Mike stared at his cards. "So, ah, fifteen-two, fifteen-four and three is seven." He laid his hand on the table, face up.

Jeannie studied her own cards. She was just about to start counting when she glanced at her father's hand and stopped. She glanced up at him quickly, her brow furrowing. "Mike, you have a dozen."

"What?" He looked up at her, blinking slowly as if he couldn't focus properly.

She stared at him, frowning. "Are you okay?"

He smiled slowly; his head was weaving slightly. "I'm fine…"

She folded her hand and laid the cards on the table. "No, you're not. You're too tired. We're going to stop playing and you're gonna go to sleep."

"No -" he started to protest but she cut him off.

"Mike, I've never known you to misread a crib hand. You're tired and it shows, so we're gonna stop playing and you're gonna go to sleep." Without waiting for another objection, she got to her feet, picking up the tray table and putting it on the floor. "Lie down," she ordered and, with a petulant glare, he did as he was told, sliding down on the bed till just his head was against the pillows.

She picked up the thick wool blanket that had been draped over the footboard and spread it over him as he reluctantly closed his eyes, unwilling to admit that she was right. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at him worriedly. She gently put one hand on the side of his face, her fingertips touching the bandage, and he smiled slightly. "I'm okay," he whispered, keeping his eyes closed.

"I know you are," she sighed, as she waited for him to fall asleep. It didn't take long.

# # # # #

They could hear the chain being unlatched; the dark-blue door opened slowly, exposing the beige painted wall of a corridor and nothing else. Steve and Wilson exchanged confused looks as a head of curly red hair appeared tentatively around the door. Both smiling gently and encouragingly, they folded their I.D.'s and slipped them into pockets.

"We really appreciate you agreeing to see us, Ms. Lawson," Steve said warmly as he stepped across the threshold, Wilson following close behind.

The redhead, dressed in a large, fluffy light blue dressing gown, closed the door behind them, engaging the lock and resetting the chain, then turned to them, one hand holding the lapels of the gown together. She looked up at them from under her brow, but they could still see the black eye and the fading bruise on her jaw.

Without a word, she walked past them towards the small living room and curled up on an oversized armchair, pulling her legs up under herself, staring at the floor. Tentatively, the two men approached the sofa and sat, leaning forward slightly but not enough to invade her personal space.

"What do you need to know?" she asked so softly they could barely hear her.

Wilson took out his notebook and pen while Steve looked at her and smiled kindly. "Ms. Lawson, Beverly Landau told us about your, ah, your assault last week…" He stopped, his gaze narrowing. "Are you okay? Did you see a doctor?"

Pulling the gown a little tighter and swallowing heavily, she glanced at him then looked away again. "I'm okay," she whispered, "I don't need to see a doctor."

Steve nodded. "Okay," he said softly, "well, Sergeant Wilson here and I, well, we're investigating a string of assaults against… women in the past couple of months. I'm sure you've heard about them?"

She nodded, still not meeting his eyes.

He nodded again. "Well, ah, we haven't been able to gather too much information about the men who are committing these assaults… they've been very, um, disciplined at not leaving any clues behind for us to find and follow. And we were, ah, well, we were wondering if you might be able to tell us anything that might help us find them and stop them?"

They watched her carefully. She sat very still for several long seconds, then she blinked quickly a number of times and glanced up again. "They, um, they put tape over my eyes and my mouth… I couldn't scream… I couldn't see anything… I'm sorry…" Her voice cracked and she caught her breath, looking down once more.

"That's okay, that's okay," Steve soothed, keeping his voice low and encouraging, "do you remember feeling anything, like the material of their clothes…?"

She shook her head slowly.

"How about a smell? Was there a smell of any kind? Cigarettes? Beer? Liquor? Candy?"

Her head continued to shake slowly, her breaths increasing in frequency as she struggled for control.

"How many times did they hit you?" Steve asked cautiously and she caught her breath. She looked up at him.

Biting her lip, she stared at him. "They punched me in the face twice… then they kicked me in the stomach, three times…" Her voice faded and her trembling could be seen from across the room.

Wilson, who had been writing, glanced up, asking quietly and gently, "Ms. Lawson, do you remember either of them saying anything?"

Her faraway stare was unnerving; she didn't move and the two detectives glanced at each other, unsure whether she had heard the question or not.

Then she nodded, and they glanced at each other quickly, silently catching their breaths. "One of them… one of them was on top of me and I felt him jerk… like he was being pulled back…" Her free hand went to her mouth and her brows knit with the pain and horror of the memory. "I heard one of them say something… but it wasn't English… I don't know what it was…"

Carefully, trying not to break the spell, Steve leaned forward a little more. "Can you tell us what it sounded like?"

She continued to stare into space, not moving. Then she said quietly, " _Aught valley_." She looked up slowly and met his eyes. "It sounded like _aught valley._ " She looked at them anxiously. "Does that help?"

Steve's eyes slid sideways; he saw Wilson writing furiously in his notebook. Resisting the urge to put a comforting hand on the traumatized woman's arm, he smiled and nodded, "Yes, Ms. Lawson, that helps us a great deal."

# # # # #

" _Aught valley_ … Does that sound Russian to you?" Wilson asked as they crossed the sidewalk to the car.

"I have no idea," Steve replied as he fished the keys from his jacket pocket and got behind the wheel. "Look, it's late. Why don't we call it a night and get a fresh start in the morning?"

"Sounds good to me," Wilson agreed, settling into the passenger seat.

"Listen, ah," Steve said as he started the engine, checking the mirrors before swinging the large sedan into the street, "I talked to Jeannie earlier. She was wondering if we're free to join her for breakfast tomorrow morning. She'd like to meet you, she said, and she just wants us to catch up, you know, sort of compare notes about what's going on with Mike and Irene."

Wilson snorted and nodded. "Sounds great to me. I'd love to meet her. And I feel guilty about not seeing Irene but, you know, Steve, I just don't know what to say to her… I just, you know…"

"Don't worry, Bob, I know exactly what you mean."

# # # # #

"So he didn't wake up at all last night when you got home?" Jeannie asked, reaching for her orange juice and taking a sip.

Putting his coffee cup down on the saucer, Steve shook his head. "No, I guess you tired him out. But he was fine this morning; I made sure he had a good breakfast before I left."

"Did you tell him we were meeting for breakfast?"

Steve glanced at her with raised eyebrows. "Of course not. I wouldn't've heard the end of it – why? Where? What's going on? Best to leave sleeping dogs lie, as it were."

All three of them chuckled. Wilson looked at Mike's daughter. "Jeannie, you have no idea how thrilled I am that you can spend so much time with Irene. It's… ah, it's been a little overwhelming for me…"

Jeannie put a hand on his forearm. "You don't need to worry, Bob, it's been overwhelming for everyone. I'm just glad I can be of some use and that Steve can be there for Mike."

Wilson nodded, swallowing heavily. "How, ah, how is she doing?"

"Well," she glanced at Steve before continuing, "she has spoken to me about the assault, so that's a start I guess, but she hasn't talked to me about what she's going through and I think she really needs to do that."

A strained and uncomfortable silence descended on the table.

Taking another sip of her orange juice, Jeannie looked at her father's partner. "Steve, has Mike talked to you about… shoelaces?"

Steve frowned and stared at her, baffled. "Shoelaces? No, not that I remember… Why?"

"Well, when I got to the house yesterday, I found one of his dress shoes out on the landing in front of the bedroom and the other near the bedroom door, like he'd thrown them across the room."

Wilson's eyebrows shot up and the two younger people looked his way. "I, ah, I think I know what that might be about." He hesitated and inhaled heavily. "When I talked to Irene in the hospital the other day, and she told me about what had happened… she said that when they were walking down Eddy, Mike stopped to tie his shoelaces and she'd walked on ahead… and that's when they grabbed her…"

He stopped talking, meeting their eyes. All three knew what that implied. With a heavy sigh, Steve sat back and ran a hand through his hair. "And he blames himself for what happened."

Jeannie nodded sadly. "And you and I know that nothing we say is ever going to change that."


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 19**

Their breakfast had arrived and all three began to eat, the conversation having lulled in the aftermath of the shoelace revelation. Steve was trying to figure out how he would broach the subject with his partner when the time came; Jeannie was hoping it might be a way to get Irene to open up even more; and Wilson, knowing that his partner and her fiancé were being well looked after, was mulling over the latest information they had uncovered.

Picking up a crispy strip of bacon, Wilson glanced at Jeannie before getting Steve's attention. "I've been trying to think of that guy in Vice that speaks Russian – you know the one I'm talking about? Five eight, stocky, has that thick black mustache?" He popped the bacon into his mouth.

Steve froze, frowning and pursing his lips. Then he shook his head. "I can see him, but I can't put a name to the face. Damn it."

"Petrov…? Fetisov…? Something- _sov?"_ Wilson chuckled and Steve joined him.

"I'll check with Personnel when we get in," the homicide inspector said with a laugh.

Frowning with bemusement, Jeannie's stare was bouncing from one to the other. "If it's not _confidential_ ," she said with just a hint of sarcasm, "can I ask what you're talking about?"

They both looked at her, smiling. "Oh," Steve chuckled, "ah, it's just a lead we might have stumbled onto last night. But we need someone who speaks Russian. We have to find out if this word someone overheard is Russian or not, and what it means?"

"There's a Vice sergeant that's Russian and we're gonna ask him," Wilson took over the narrative, glancing at Steve, "if we can remember what his name is."

Jeannie looked from Wilson to Steve. "Why don't you just ask Mike about it?"

Steve inclined his head, frowning. "What?"

She cocked her head and stared at him. "I said, why don't you ask Mike about it?"

Still frowning, Steve glanced at Wilson and shrugged before looking back at her and shaking his head in confusion, his eyebrows raised. He was wondering why Jeannie was insisting they bother her father with something so trivial. "And why would I ask Mike about it? It's just as easy going through Personnel."

She just stared at him, her eyebrows getting a little higher. His lowered into another frown, then suddenly his head snapped back and he looked startled. "Oh my god!" he gasped, a hand going to his forehead, "I totally forgot."

Jeannie chuckled; Wilson looked back and forth between them in bewilderment. "Forgot what?"

Grinning, Steve looked at the Robbery sergeant, shaking his head in chagrin. "Mike speaks Russian," he said simply.

"What?!"

"Well, not really," Jeannie said in clarification, glancing at Steve before addressing Wilson. "He speaks _some_ Russian. His father was Yugoslav and his mother Czech; he speaks Serbian really well, Czech pretty well and everyone from that part of the world speaks a little Russian. Enough to get by, he's always said."

"Hey, in my defense," Steve broke in with a laugh, a hand on his chest, "I haven't heard him use it in a couple of years. I just forgot."

Wilson chuckled and sat back. "I tell you, that man never ceases to amaze me."

"Tell me about it," Steve mumbled under his breath and Jeannie glared at him, laughing. He picked up the bill that was lying on the corner of the table. "I've got this," he said with a smile, glancing at the total then looking up at the other two. "I'll just go pay and then we can head over to Mike's."

"And I'll go back to Irene's. Who knows, maybe today she'll feel like opening up a little more." Bob Wilson reached out and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. His smile and the gratitude in his eyes was almost overwhelming.

# # # # #

Steve opened the front door and preceded Wilson into the house. It was quiet but the smell of fresh coffee quickly reached their nostrils.

"Mike!" Steve called out, looking up the stairs.

"Up here!" came the strong reply and the younger man relaxed, glancing at Wilson and smiling. "Be down in a second!"

"Want another cup of coffee?" Steve asked as he headed towards the kitchen.

"Sure," Wilson answered as he followed.

They were just stirring their cups when Mike, in his usual khakis and checked shirt, appeared in the kitchen doorway. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon –" he had started to say before entering, stopping when his eyes fell on Wilson. "Oh, hi, Bob," he grinned. "I didn't know you were here. Good to see you." He held out his hand and Wilson shook it.

"Good to see you too, sir," Wilson beamed, hoping he had successfully hidden his startled reaction when he saw the thick gauze bandage around the older man's head. "How are you feeling, sir?"

"Bob, how many times do I have tell you – it's Mike, right?" He held up an admonishing index finger.

Wilson nodded, grinning. "Yeah, I forgot, sorry… Mike."

"Thank you. And I'm doing better every day, thanks for asking. It helps to have a hard head, I guess." He laughed carefully, turning to Steve. "So, what brings you back here so soon; you forget something?"

"No," Steve said, leaning against the counter, coffee cup in hand, "we wanted to talk to you."

Mike inclined his head slightly and frowned. "About the case?" Though it had remained unspoken between them, by mutual consent, he was nevertheless well aware that both younger men were working on the investigation.

"Yeah."

"Okay," Mike said with a facial shrug, "let's make ourselves comfortable then, shall we?" He led the way into the living room, taking a seat in the armchair. Steve and Wilson sat on the sofa, putting their cups on the coffee table.

Steve leaned forward, grinning. "How good is your Russian?"

Mike frowned. "My Russian? What do you mean?"

Glancing at Irene's partner, Steve explained, "Well, we may have a lead but we need to find out if something someone overheard is Russian – and, if it is, what it means?"

Knowing that Steve wouldn't give him anymore information, that he wanted to keep him out of the investigation for the time being, Mike's intense blue eyes slid from Steve to Wilson and back again. "Well, I'm not fluent by any means, but if it's not something I recognize, I do have a couple of Russian-English dictionaries. What is it?"

Wilson had taken out his notebook and found the appropriate notation; he wanted to make sure he pronounced it as he had been told. " _Aught valley._ " They watched as Mike's frown deepened. "We don't even know if it's one word or two," Wilson said apologetically.

" _Aught valley?_ " Mike echoed, rolling the words over on his tongue. " _Aughtvalley…_ " He leaned back in the chair even further, his stare turning inward. _"Aughtvalley,_ " he whispered again, then he stood quickly and moved behind the armchair to the bookcase. "Steve," he called over his shoulder as his eyes scanned the books, "can you run up to my bedroom and get my glasses?"

"Sure," the younger man said, getting to his feet and taking the stairs two at a time. By the time he returned, Mike was back in the armchair, two thick paperback books in his hands. He glanced at the cover of the top one; it was a Russian-English dictionary.

"Thanks," Mike mumbled automatically as he took the glasses Steve held out and slipped them on. He put one book on the table beside him and opened the one in his lap, rifling through it quickly and finding the page he wanted. He looked up, grinning. "Found it. Your pronunciation was a little off and it threw me a bit… The word is _otvali_ and it means, ah, go away or back off, that kinda thing. Does that make any sense to you?" His enthusiasm was hard to miss as his eyes snapped back and forth between them.

Steve and Wilson exchanged a look; they both seemed pleased. "Yeah," Steve said with a grin, turning back to his partner, "that makes a lot of sense."

When he didn't continue, Mike ventured, "And that's all you're gonna tell me, right?"

With a closed-mouthed grin and his eyebrows bobbing, Steve nodded. "Yep. Your only job right now it to get better, remember? You leave the investigating up to ol' Bob and me," he finished with a laugh, slapping Wilson on the shoulder.

Wilson turned to him with a deep, cartoonish frown. " _Old_ Bob?" The other two laughed. "Thanks…"

Still chuckling, Steve got to his feet; Wilson followed. "We have to get back to work." He pointed at Mike. "You, stay there. We know our way out." With a warm and gentle laugh, Mike nodded. When Steve got to the door, he turned back. "I'll be home for dinner and I'll pick us up something. You take it easy and don't overexert yourself today… And thanks."

"Yeah, ah, thanks a lot, Mike. It's great to see you doing so well," Wilson said, smiling gratefully.

"Thanks, Bob. And be careful – both of you!" he called after them as they stepped out onto the stoop and the bright, chilly early December sunshine.

# # # # #

"What time's the flight?"

"Eleven," Wilson said as he dropped into his chair. He glanced at his watch. "Look, I don't know about you but I think we've done enough for the day. We've been going at this non-stop since it happened and I don't know about you, but I need to let off a little steam."

Steve tossed his pen onto the desk and sat back. "What are you suggesting?"

"Well, it's a little before three. I'll have to get home and packed and to the airport by about 10, and I know you want to bring dinner home to Mike at some point. I'm suggesting you and I call it a night and head over to the PAL gym and shoot some hoops. What d'ya think?"

Steve ran his hands over his tired eyes. "That sounds… absolutely amazing. I'm in."

# # # # #

The gym was busier than expected and there were enough off-duty officers for a pick-up game. For more than an hour the two detectives, playing on opposite teams, pounded up and down the court, running and gunning and crashing the boards, releasing a great deal of the frustration, worry and anger that had been building up inside them since they had learned of the attack.

Breathing heavily and sweating profusely, the exhausted players made their way to the locker room. Toweling off, Steve sat on the bench in front of his locker, thumbing open the combination lock he carried in his gym bag for just such occasions. Wilson was doing the same at the locker beside him.

The din in the small, packed room was deafening. Over the shouting and the laughter, Steve, whose 'skins' team had lost to Wilson's 'shirts', looked over and laughed. "I'm glad you suggested this," he yelled over the cacophony, "I needed it!"

Wilson grinned back. "Yeah, me too!" He had dropped his own gym bag on the floor at his feet, unzipped it and pulled out a towel. He quickly stripped down to his skivvies and started for the showers.

Steve was rubbing a small hand-towel over his hair. He dropped it on the bench beside him and was reaching for his bath towel and shampoo when a deep booming voice, coming from the row of lockers one aisle over, seemed to cut through the racket and reached his ears. "… I heard about it, sure, everybody has… but it ain't like she's a saint or nothing, right?… I mean, come on, you gotta admit, for an older broad, that Martin sure is some looker… "

The men around him, in various states of undress, stopped moving and their eyes slowly turned in Steve's direction. He was sitting perfectly still, listening, barely breathing.

There was a distant murmur of overlapping voices, as if several others were trying to quiet the loudmouth.

"Yeah, I know, look, I don't care… she was putting out for Stone, wasn't she?... like I said, she ain't no saint so why is everybody treatin' her like one… but, hey, I'd sure like to have a go at her myself, you know what I mean… show her what a real man feels like…" A dirty, guttural, ugly laugh filled the room.

Before anyone could react, Steve shot to his feet. In a flash he was pushing his way through the wall of bodies that surrounded the source of the vile rhetoric. The large, paunchy, crowing braggart was standing in the aisle between the two benches, his back turned, tucking his shirt into his pants.

Before he was aware of what was happening, Steve was on him, grabbing an arm and spinning him around. A voice, too late, yelled, "Harvey, look out!" His hands grasping the front of the blue work shirt, Steve's momentum carried him forward; the back of the larger man's knees connected with the bench and he lost his balance, his weight, the force of his spin and the fury of the man whose hands were still clutching the front of his shirt driving him down.

His back slammed into the front of the lockers and he slid down quickly till he was sitting on the floor, the calves of his legs still elevated by the bench. Steve stepped over the bench so he was straddling his adversary and, gripping the now sweat-soaked cotton of the shirt even tighter, he leaned forward until they were nose to nose, his green eyes livid with rage, his nostrils flaring as he stared into the wide-eyed, terror-stricken face of San Francisco Police Sergeant Harvey Pollack.

Nobody moved.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 20**

A hand lightly touched his shoulder. "Steve…" a deep, calm voice murmured in his ear. But when the younger cop didn't move, the hand withdrew.

The impasse continued; every breath in the room was held.

Pollack was blinking rapidly, sweat from his forehead sliding into his wide, terrified eyes. He tried to lick his lips but his mouth was too dry. Both hands were pressed against the floor at his sides in an effort to stay as still as possible; his straining muscles began to shake.

Twisting the cotton shirt a little tighter, Steve leaned even closer, their noses almost touching. "So you think you're a real man, hunh?" His voice was threateningly low, but the room was so quiet that even those furthest away could hear every word.

Pollack said nothing; he just stared and blinked.

"You have no idea what a real man is, you dumb bastard. But today's your lucky day, Harvey, because I'm gonna tell you." He pulled on the shirt, raising Pollack slightly off the floor. "Are you gonna listen?"

The paunchy sergeant nodded rapidly, his head barely moving. His eyes never left the furious green ones that continued to bore into him.

"Good." Steve eased up on the shirt and Pollack's buttocks reconnected with the floor. "'Cause, you see, a real man doesn't talk about a woman, any woman, like you just did, because a real man has respect for women, all women. But you wouldn't know anything about respect, would you, because nobody respects _you_ , do they? I mean, why would they… right?"

Pollack just stared at him.

Steve tightened his fists and shook him. "Right?"

Closing his eyes, Pollack nodded then took a deep, unsteady breath and opened them again. A slight smile materialized on the younger man's lips, and the portly sergeant snorted a dry laugh. The smile vanished and the hands on the shirt tightened once more; the older man's face paled and fear reappeared in his bulging eyes.

"You seem to be an expert when it comes to Inspector Martin, aren't you, Harvey?" Steve hissed, deliberately using the superior officer's first name again. "Tell me, have you ever even met her?"

Pollack inhaled deeply and shook his head, maintaining his defiant stare into the steely green eyes.

"Of course not," Steve purred sarcastically with a smile, "but you know all about her, don't you?" He continued to stare; Pollack glared back but bit his bottom lip. "She _is_ a beautiful woman, you're right, inside _and_ out. But you wouldn't know that because she's just a piece of meat to you, isn't she? A piece of ass, right?"

The dark-haired sergeant swallowed heavily, his eyes sliding away momentarily, brought back when the grip on his shirt tightened again.

"Inspector Martin and you… you don't even breathe the same air, you stupid ass. But that's okay, because she has a real man in her life. And, funny, you seem to know all about him too. Am I right?" Steve leaned in closer; Pollack could feel the hot breath against his face. "What's his name again?"

Pollack's eyes widened and he swallowed noisily. "Ah, uh… Lieutenant Stone…"

Steve smiled and pulled his head back slightly. "Oh, so you _do_ know his rank… A little, ah, a little higher than yours, isn't it?"

Brow furrowed in worry, Pollack smiled weakly and nodded.

"And you know, of course, that he's my partner, right?"

Another terrified nod, another dry swallow.

Steve's smile was quick and perfunctory, and a ripple of fear snaked down Pollack's spine. "So let me tell you a little something about what it takes to be a real man, okay? Because I don't think you know…" For the first time, Steve's eyes clouded and he blinked quickly several times, his grip on the shirt weakening almost imperceptibly.

Pollack stared into his eyes but said nothing; Steve could feel the trembling through the fabric of the now completely sweat-soaked shirt in his hands.

"You see, you were right about the other night…everyone seems to know about it, so what I'm about to tell you won't be a shock to anybody here," he began quietly, "Inspector Martin _was_ brutalized… she was punched and she was kicked… and she was _raped_. She was jumped and dragged into an alley by…" Steve swallowed heavily and cleared his throat, "by a couple of guys who probably think a lot like you do… that a woman isn't a living, breathing human being with a soul but something to be ogled and leered at… and used and abused as you see fit… am I right?"

The pressure on Pollack's shirtfront increased and he was pulled once more off the floor.

"Am I right?!"

Eyes startlingly wide, his face slick with sweat, Pollack shook his head quickly.

"Liar…" Steve snorted dryly and he lowered the portly sergeant back to the floor, shaking his head in disgust. He hesitated then inhaled deeply. "My partner was with her that night… and he couldn't do anything to stop it… and now he can't even bring himself to face her… he's too overwhelmed with guilt… and grief… because he couldn't protect the woman he loves…"

Steve pulled Pollack closer so they were nose to nose once again. "And do you why? You, who seems to know everything, do you know why?" The rage in the quiet tone sent a ripple through the silent crowd of witnesses, those closest tensing in anticipation of what, they weren't sure.

"He couldn't do anything because they hit him from behind with a 2x4… they fractured his skull. He lay in that alley in a pool of his own blood for over an hour until help arrived… he was unconscious for eight hours and they had to put a dozen stitches in his scalp to close the wound… When he could finally remember what happened, his first thoughts were for her, not for himself… for _her_ …" Steve paused and inhaled deeply. "He won't be back to work for a couple of months… he has double vision and blinding headaches and he gets dizzy a lot…" His eyes filled and he blinked quickly again to clear them. "And all he can think about is how he failed, as a man, as a cop and as a human being, to protect her…"

After several tense moments of silence, Steve slowly released his grip on Pollack's shirt and stood up, still straddling the terrified sergeant whose eyes tracked his every move like a prey watching a predator.

"That's what a real man is, you little piece of shit. So why don't you do us all a favour, _Sergeant Pollack,_ and crawl back into your little hole and don't come out for a very long time… do you understand me?"

For several drawn-out seconds they stared at each other, neither moving; it was Pollack who broke the deadlock first, nodding his head slowly. With a mirthless smile, Steve turned away, stepping over the bench and moving through the crowd of onlookers who stepped out of his way, many of whom were looking at him with raised eyebrows.

He returned to his locker and sat on the bench, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at his trembling hands.

As the others began to disperse, Pollack, looking around anxiously, pulled his legs off the bench and pushed himself shakily to his feet, one hand on the lockers for support. "That son-of-a-bitch, I'll have him up on charges," he began to mutter as he stood, lifting one arm and pointing in the direction Steve had gone. "If he thinks he can get away with threatening a superior –"

A hand on his chest slammed him back against the lockers again and his eyes snapped to the stern visage of a grey-haired older man. "No… you won't," Captain Eric Chapman said slowly and softly, "because nothing happened here, Sergeant… right?"

Pollack gaped at the captain, his mouth flapping open like a fish out of water. "What are you talking about? You heard him threat- " He was slammed back into the locker again.

"We didn't see anything," Chapman said with quiet determination. He turned his head slightly. "Did we, fellas?!" he called over his shoulder.

"Not a thing!" "Nope." "What are you talking about, Eric?" were some of the comments that Pollack heard as he stared into Chapman's suddenly bemused eyes.

"So if you don't want to be manning the desk over in Properties, I'd keep my head down if I were you, Pollack." Chapman smiled coldly. "You get my drift?"

Pollack, whose angry eyes had flashed around the room, seeing everyone going about their business and no one willing to stand up for him, sagged under the pressure of Chapman's hand against his chest, dropping his head and nodding.

"Good boy," Chapman seethed coldly as he removed his hand and stepped away.

Steve was still sitting in front of his locker when Wilson sank onto the bench beside him. There were a few seconds of silence before the older man said quietly, "I, ah, I missed most of that… but I heard enough to know I want to thank you for sticking up for Irene… and for Mike."

Steve didn't look up but he snorted in embarrassment, lowering his head even further. He felt Wilson's hand on his back and heard him laugh slightly.

"Hell, I always thought it was gonna be me who tee'd off on someone first." Wilson slapped the younger man's back affectionately then picked up his gym bag and put it on the bench beside him. "Look, ah, we both have to get out of here. Why don't you grab a quick shower and I'll drive us back to the Hall so you can get your car. Don't forget you still have to get dinner for Mike and I have a plane to catch."

Steve sat up, not making eye contact. "You're right," he said with a firm nod, then reached down and picked up his towel and shampoo, getting up and starting for the showers.

Wilson watched him go with a grateful smile.

# # # # #

Steve was putting the large paper bag on the counter when he heard a noise behind and turned in time to see Mike step through the entrance into the kitchen.

"Hmmm, that smells good," the older man said, sniffing loudly. "Lasagna?"

Grinning, Steve reached into the bag and started taking out the large aluminum and cardboard containers. "Ravioli. Is that okay?"

"Are you kidding? That's perfect. I'm starving," Mike chuckled as he crossed to stand beside the younger man at the counter. "I've got the table set already."

Setting the wax paper bag of garlic bread on the counter, Steve glanced over his shoulder at the precisely laid-out dinner table. "Great. It'll just be a minute."

"You want a glass of wine?" Mike asked as he opened the fridge, reaching for the can of tomato juice.

"You got some?"

"Yep, a nice Bordeaux. Wanna glass?"

"Sure."

Mike opened a cupboard, taking out a water glass and a wineglass. Steve took the two plates off the table and set them on the counter, opening the container of ravioli.

Mike was pouring himself a glass of tomato juice when he glanced up to see Steve, seemingly frozen in mid-motion spooning the ravioli onto a plate, staring at him. Mike stopped pouring. "What?" he asked, brow furrowing.

Steve slowly grinned, then shook his head slightly with a laugh. "Nothing," he said quietly, returning to their dinner.

Mike shrugged to himself and resumed pouring. He was taking the cork out of the already opened wine bottle when he felt the younger man's hand on his back, sliding up to his shoulder and squeezing. He looked at Steve again and both men smiled self-consciously before returning to their respective tasks.

# # # # #

Jeannie handed Irene one of the mugs she was carrying then settled into the overstuffed armchair, pulling her legs up under her. She blew across the top of the steaming tea before taking a tentative sip. "It's cold out there tonight."

Looking down, holding the mug in her lap, Irene nodded. Her lip was almost healed and the bruise around her eye was beginning to fade. But the non-physical wounds were still fresh and raw, Jeannie knew. Irene looked at her from under a lowered brow. "How's your Dad doing?" she asked quietly.

Jeannie smiled slightly to herself, cradling the cup closer to his mouth in an attempt to hide it. This just might be the opportunity she needed. Her eyes slid from the mug to Irene and she smiled warmly. "He's getting a little better every day," she said encouragingly. "Steve's taking him to get the stitches out tomorrow, so that's a positive step."

Irene smiled sadly, her unfocused gaze travelling from the warm blue eyes of the younger woman to the mug in her lap. She swallowed heavily. "That's good," she whispered.

Jeannie hesitated for a second, inhaled deeply but silently, then said almost apologetically, "But I think he's having a hard time dealing with his guilt."

Irene's head came up sharply, her eyebrows knit. "Guilt? What do you mean? What guilt?"

Hoping she hadn't played her cards too early, Jeannie dropped her eyes, seeming to reconsider, then looked back up at the older woman. "Irene, I think Mike believes he let you down, that he could have stopped what happened. He's blaming himself for what happened to you."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 21**

Irene's haunted eyes bored into the younger woman's as her fingers kneaded the heavy white mug in her hands. She shook her head slowly, "Why would he think that? Why would Mike blame himself for what happened?"

Jeannie, who was smiling with sympathetic sadness, was subtly shaking her own head. "Irene, he's a man… a man who loves you very, very much. And he was with you when it happened… And it doesn't matter to him that they… they incapacitated him – hell, that they almost killed him… All he knows, and all he believes, is that he was with you when you were attacked and he should have been able to stop it…"

The older woman's stare had unfocused as she listened, looking down, and slowly silent tears began to trickle down her cheeks. "Does he know about the baby?" she asked breathlessly.

Nodding slowly, Jeannie whispered, "Yes."

Irene closed her eyes, breathing deeply. One shaking hand came up to cover her face, to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "He must hate me," she murmured, and Jeannie's heart leapt.

Quickly putting her own mug down on the end table, she got up and crossed the two short steps to the sofa, dropping down beside the older woman and throwing an arm around her, pulling her close. "Oh my god, Irene, honey, he could never hate you, ever. How could you think that?"

Taking deep unsteady breaths, Irene began to cry openly, both hands now so tightly wrapped around the mug that Jeannie was afraid it would break. She took the mug from the older woman's hands and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table, then enfolded the distraught woman in a warm embrace.

"He doesn't… he doesn't want to see me, does he?" Irene managed to get out between sobs, and Jeannie squeezed her tighter.

"No no no," she assured quickly, "dear god no, Irene, no… Of course he wants to see you… He's just not been well enough to leave the house yet… and I think he feels ashamed that he wasn't able to save you…" She could feel her own hot tears rolling down her cheeks; there was so much sadness in their lives right now. "I think he's afraid that you wouldn't want to see him…" she finished softly.

"Oh my god," Irene breathed, "I never thought he would think that… I never thought…" Getting herself under control, she looked up. "I do want to see him. Jeannie, I want to see him."

Smiling encouragingly, Jeannie nodded. "All right, tomorrow. We'll go see him tomorrow. Is that all right?"

Biting her lower lip, her eyes brightening, Irene nodded, reaching up and placing both hands over Jeannie's, leaning against the younger woman even more. They sat that way for a long time in silence, both of them trying to get a grip on their roiling emotions.

"Jeannie, what do I say to him?" Irene finally asked, her voice barely a whisper. "How can I tell him there was nothing he could do? That I tried to warn him but I couldn't… How can I tell him I thought he was dead, that the entire time they were… forcing themselves on me, all I could think of was… Mike was dead and I didn't care what they did to me anymore…?"

Jeannie tightened her grip on the grief-stricken woman, her heart breaking. She knew there was nothing she could say that would help; she couldn't begin to understand what Irene had gone through, and no amount of hopeful platitudes would negate the truth of what had happened in that alley that night.

So she held her tight and rocked them both; and they stayed that way long into the dark, cold night in San Francisco.

# # # # #

"You know, I can take a cab to the doctor's. Don't you and Bob have work to do today?" Mike sighed as Steve helped him into the windbreaker then set the baseball cap on his head.

"And I told you that Bob is in New York, I have the day off, and you're not taking a cab." Steve opened the front door and stepped back to allow the older man out onto the stoop ahead of him.

Rolling his eyes, Mike stepped over the threshold and looked up at the bright morning sunshine, squinting. "Yikes, it feels like I haven't been outside in months."

Chuckling, Steve locked the front door. "All right, let me go down in front of you in case –"

"I know, I know," the older man groused good-naturedly, "in case I get dizzy and lose my balance, I fall into you first instead of falling down the stairs."

"How'd ya guess?" Steve laughed, starting down.

# # # # #

It was early afternoon when Jeannie knocked on the door, glancing at the nervous woman behind her. They heard footsteps approaching and the latch unlocking before the heavy blue-painted wooden door swung open. Steve grinned when his eyes fell on both women.

As a smiling Jeannie walked past him, he stepped out onto the stoop, opening his arms, his features warm and loving. "Irene," he whispered sweetly and, as she looked at him with a tentative, almost frightened tenderness, he gently wrapped his arms around her. At first stiff and hesitant, it took mere seconds for her to feel the love and she wrapped her own arms around his strong chest and squeezed, closing her eyes.

Releasing her, Steve took a step back, gesturing towards the living room. "Come on in," he offered quietly, and she entered the house ahead of him. Jeannie had already taken off her coat and put her purse on the sofa. They could all smell the fresh coffee aroma wafting from the kitchen.

Irene's eyes darted around the living room nervously. The two younger people glanced at each other. Steve smiled at her. "Mike's upstairs. I think Jeannie told you, we were at the doctor's this morning. He got the stitches removed."

Irene nodded with the ghost of a smile.

Steve shot a quick look at Jeannie before continuing. "It, ah, it turned out to be a rather painful procedure, and by the time we got home, he'd developed one of those massive headaches he's been having. I, ah, I gave him some soup for lunch but he couldn't keep it down, so he took one of those really strong painkillers the hospital gave him." He shrugged with a grimace. "I'm afraid they put him to sleep."

Steve was prepared to see disappointment in Irene's eyes and he was more than a little surprised to see her almost relax. He shot another quick glance in Jeannie's direction but read only what looked to be relief there as well.

They had spoken earlier, just after the men had returned from the doctor's appointment, so none of this was news to Jeannie. But she had guessed, and rightly so she was now convinced, that this was the best thing for Irene at the moment; her need to see Mike had been at war with her reluctance to actually have to talk to him about what they had been through.

Taking a step closer to the older woman, Jeannie said encouragingly, "Irene, why don't you go up and see him?"

Irene looked at her, eyebrows knit with indecision. "I don't want to wake him…" she started but Steve moved nearer.

"Irene, you won't wake him up, believe me. Those pills put him out for several hours at least." He nodded at her, smiling optimistically. "Here, give me your coat." He held out his arms and, after a split second of hesitation, she put her purse on the sidetable and slid her jacket off, handing it to him. He took a step back, and she glanced up the staircase nervously.

"Go on," Jeannie urged quietly and, with one more anxious glance, Irene started up.

The two younger people watched her slow progress, their eyes following silently until Irene had reached the landing outside the master bedroom door. She stood stockstill, unable, it seemed, to turn the knob and enter. She glanced apprehensively back down the stairs; Steve and Jeannie, watching her, glanced guiltily at each other and moved away, out of sight.

Steve cleared his throat slightly, with an embarrassed shrug. "So, ah, you want to join me in the kitchen for a cup of coffee?"

Chuckling slightly, equally uncomfortable, Jeannie nodded. "That sounds like a great idea."

# # # # #

Irene looked down at the doorknob. She couldn't remember another time in her life when she was so reluctant to enter a room. The hand that eventually wrapped around the knob was trembling; she turned it as silently as possible, opening the door only far enough to allow herself to slip through. Not looking around, she turned to close the door as quietly as she'd opened it, laying a hand on the smooth wood before taking a deep breath and turning to face the room.

Fully clothed, Mike was lying on his back, his right arm on the bed, his left across his stomach. His head, which was still heavily bandaged, was turned to the left to avoid pressure on the healing wound.

A hand over her mouth, Irene slowly and softly approached the bed, unable to tear her eyes from the thick white gauze bandage, the stark reminder of how close he had come to certain death that night.

She stood over the bed and stared, watching the comforting rise and fall of his chest, soaking in the reality that he really was still alive and recovering. Slowly and carefully, she lowered herself onto the bed, then stretched out beside him. When he didn't move, giving her no sign that he knew she was there, she slid up alongside him till they were touching, and tenderly laid her arm across his chest.

With her head against his shoulder, she closed her eyes, allowing the bitterly hot tears she had been holding in to find their way down her cheeks and onto the bedspread.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 22**

"So, what do you think we should do?"

"About what?" Jeannie asked, putting her coffee cup down on the kitchen table.

Taking a sip from his own mug, Steve rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. "Mike's not gonna be awake for hours, and I have a feeling Irene might not want to leave until she has the chance to actually talk to him."

"So, what are you suggesting?"

"Well," he said with a smile, leaning forward as he put his cup on the table as well, "do you think Irene would mind it if we took the liberty of moving her here for the next who-knows-how-long?"

Jeannie's head went back slightly and she frowned. "What, you mean I go back to her place and pack up some of her things and bring them here?"

"Umh-humh."

"Without asking her?"

"Jeannie, do you actually think she's capable of making that kind of a decision right now – or would she be grateful to you for making it for her?"

The young woman thought about it for several seconds, then nodded. "Yeah, you're right about that, she hasn't been her usual decisive self since the… ah…. Cripes, I can't even bring myself to say it." She glanced at him guiltily with a sigh. "God, I just feel so sorry for the two of them."

"You and me both. But I think we're both doing the best we can for them right now, I really do. Don't you?"

Jeannie nodded with a closed-mouth grin. She glanced towards the fridge. "You mentioned something about giving Mike some soup at lunch?" He nodded. "What else have you got here to eat?"

"Well, we have some leftover ravioli, but that's about it." On her questioning frown, he continued, "The ravioli seems to be something that has some taste to it that he can eat without hurting his head; he says it still hurts to chew. But I'm afraid after this he's not gonna want ravioli for a very long time." They both chuckled.

"I tell you what – let me go upstairs and check on them, see how she's doing, then I'll go over to Irene's place and get our stuff and when I get back, I'll make you a list and you can go grocery shopping. A little division of duties – how does that sound?"

# # # # #

Jeannie stood silently, one hand to her mouth, staring at the two sleeping figures on the bed. Irene was lying against her father, her arm across his chest and her head against his shoulder; they were breathing simultaneously. Even in sleep, she could see the pain on her father's features and that worried her.

And she had no idea how he would react when he woke to find Irene at his side.

Moving carefully, she lifted the light wool blanket from the footboard and gently spread it over them, gratified that neither showed any indication they were aware of her presence.

With one more backward glance when she reached the door, she left the room, closing the door firmly behind her before heading down the stairs. She crossed to the kitchen. "They're both sound asleep so I don't think you'll be hearing from them for several hours. I'm really glad Irene's finally getting some rest; she hasn't been sleeping much these past few days."

"Nightmares, do you think?"

She grimaced with a facial shrug. "I honestly don't think she's been sleeping long enough to have had a nightmare. I think she just can't get her mind to stop spinning, if you know what I mean?"

"Oh yeah, only too well."

Jeannie moved towards the front entrance, picking up her coat and purse. "I won't be long. You can start that shopping list while I'm gone," she chuckled.

"Yes, dear," Steve muttered sarcastically in his best hen-pecked husband voice and she swatted him as she opened the door.

# # # # #

She heard the front door opening, the rustle and thud of paper bags being set down on the floor, a gasp for breath and then nothing. Curious, wiping her hands on the apron she was wearing and brushing her hair from her eyes, she stepped into the living room to see the front door standing open and two large, densely packed paper grocery bags on the floor halfway to the kitchen.

With a knowing chuckle, she picked up one of the bags, which turned out to be a lot heavier than anticipated, and carried it into the kitchen, setting it on the table. She was just reaching for the second bag when Steve appeared on the stoop with two more overflowing bags, gasping for air as he stumbled into the house.

"Good… god…" he managed to get out between heaving breaths, setting the two new bags on the floor, "how… the hell… does Mike… do this?"

Laughing, Jeannie looked at him patronizingly. "Well, for one thing, I think he learned early on not to fill the bags so much, you he-man you."

Open-mouthed, trying to catch his breath, Steve was staring at her with his hands on his hips. "Really…?" he panted. "Good to know… Well… I still have… two more bags… to bring in."

"Then you better get back down there, shouldn't you?" she said sarcastically as she hoisted up the second bag into her arms and started toward the kitchen.

He growled quietly at her retreating back as he turned and started out again; her gentle laughter followed him partway down the concrete steps.

# # # # #

"So, what's Bob doing in New York?"

"What?" Steve asked from his seat at the kitchen table, where he was reading the paper.

Jeannie glanced over her shoulder before picking up the cutting board with the carrots she had just chopped and dumping them into the large pot on the stove.

"I said, what's Bob doing in New York?"

"Oh, ah, just following up on a lead."

"In New York? That must be some lead. Anything to do with that Russian word you were trying to figure out the other day?"

"As a matter of fact, it does. And, ah, oh, you were right about Mike being able to help us out too, I forgot to mention."

Jeannie smiled to herself as she picked up the large turnip and stuck the butcher knife into it. "I figured he might know. So, what was the word?"

Steve sat back, putting the paper down and staring at the back of her head. He wasn't sure how much he should tell her, but he didn't want to leave her completely out in the cold. After all, this time her father was one of the victims, not the investigating officer. "In Russian or in English?" he asked with a chuckle and saw her shoulders sag in mock annoyance. "It meant 'back away' or words to that effect."

She swiveled her head to look at him. "Back away?" He nodded; he could almost see the wheels turning in her mind. "Well, that's not something Irene told Bob, I'm pretty sure of that. So, what? Another girl?" She paused, turning her body so that she now faced him completely. "Are you saying that the guys who raped Irene have done this before? And they're Russian?"

Steve's eyebrows slowly rose as he watched her deftly maneuver from one conjecture to another, once again leaving no doubt that she was her father's daughter. He nodded. She leaned against the counter and studied him. "So, is that a good thing or not? I mean, the fact that they've done this before, does that make them easier to catch?"

"We're hoping so."

"Okay…" she said slowly, still trying to fit all the pieces together, "but why is Bob in New York?"

From the tone of her voice, he had the feeling that she might have formed a nascent hypothesis. But all he said was a quiet, "Wow."

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

He smiled warmly. "I remember the first time I saw your father do that – take one little piece of information and build it into a full-blown theory."

She smirked at him but there was a pride in her look that was unmistakable. "And was he right?"

Pursing his lips, still smiling, Steve nodded. "Umh-humh." His smile disappeared.

"You do know none of this leaves this room, right?" His tone was unwaveringly serious, and she nodded gravely.

He inhaled deeply. "We have reason to believe they might have ties to one of the Russian… _mobs…_ back in New York," he said quietly.

"In what way?" she asked tentatively, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

"Well, we're not sure yet, that's why Bob's in New York. He's talking to some people back there and I guess we'll find out, I hope."

She hesitated for a few seconds. "They're really dangerous, aren't they? The Russian mobs."

He nodded with raised eyebrows. "That's what we hear."

"Then I want you and Bob to be really, really careful, you hear me? I don't want to see either of you in the same shape as Mike, or worse."

With an encouraging smile, Steve winked and picked up the paper again. "Don't worry about us, we're professionals, remember?"

"Yeah, so are Mike and Irene," Jeannie said soberly as she turned back to the counter. Steve looked down at the paper and swallowed heavily.

# # # # #

All he could feel was the ache is his head and the sensation that he was floating. His entire body felt heavy and even the act of breathing seemed to take more effort than usual. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the room spinning. He didn't want to move.

He lay that way for a long time, it seemed, before the dizziness and heaviness began to recede, though the throbbing in his head remained. He longed to return to the obliviousness of sleep but his mind and body wouldn't cooperate.

Very gradually he became aware that he wasn't alone and he tried to focus on that. Trying not to groan, he raised his head slightly and opened his eyes. There was an arm across his chest. He let his head fall back gently against the pillow then, slowly and carefully, let his eyes follow the arm to its owner.

A brunette head was lying against his shoulder, and he knew in an instant it wasn't his daughter. He caught his breath and closed his eyes, trying to muffle the surprised sob that escaped his lips. He tried to move his right arm but it was trapped by her body against his own. She stirred then very slowly raised her head.

Their eyes met.

They stared at each other for several long seconds, neither of them moving, then very gradually, almost involuntarily, she began to smile. He blinked heavily, his eyes slowly filling with tears as her smile dissolved. Staring at his pain-lined face, she carefully began to rise, being careful of her still aching ribs to get onto her knees and lean over him.

He watched her every move as if not fully believing she was here beside him. She was trembling, her breaths shallow and ragged as her eyes never left his face. Over him, an arm on each side, she leaned forward and tenderly kissed his lips.

He closed his eyes and, when she broke the connection and pulled back slightly, he opened them again, raised both hands and gently cupped her face. He stared at her, then carefully pulled her closer and softly kissed the bruise near her eye then the still healing cut on her lip.

Then he pulled her head to his chest and, as she lay against him, wrapped both arms around her and laid his cheek against the top of her head. She could feel his ragged breaths as he fought for control, and she knew without looking that tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Both her hands balled into fists as she grabbed his shirt and held on for dear life, her own breaths shallow and irregular. She felt her own tears start again, soaking into his shirt, but they were no longer bitter and angry. Finally, they were tears of relief.

They were alive, they were together, and she knew somehow they were going to survive this, no matter what was still to come.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 23**

They had lain in each other's arms for a long time, well beyond the point when their tears had run dry and their pounding hearts had regained their natural rhythms. But still neither of them wanted to move. The talking would come later, they both knew; for the moment, what mattered most was the reality of the here-and-now.

When she felt him kiss her hair once more, she raised her head slightly and looked at him. There was so much love in his eyes it almost took her breath away; but she could also see the pain he was trying so hard to conceal, and her heart skipped a beat. She carefully pushed herself up and off him, leaning on her elbows to stare into his face. She tried to smile but the worry made it impossible and she gave up. Her brow furrowed in concern, she whispered, "How do you feel?"

With a smile that didn't quite make it to his eyes, he assured calmly, "Wonderful, now that you're here." He reached out to touch her face. "How are _you_?"

She briefly bit her bottom lip, trying to stop the tears she knew were on the verge of flowing once again. She managed a wan smile. "You've always been a lousy liar when you talk about yourself." She slowly pushed herself into a sitting position, not taking her eyes from him, then reached out to gently lay her palm against his cheek, her fingers touching the gauze bandage. "Michael, tell me the truth."

He sighed, staring at her as defiantly as he could. "I said I was fine." She moved her hand to his chest, applying just enough pressure to let him know she wasn't going to let him get away with any further evasions. Under her touch she could feel the fight go out of him and he closed his eyes. "I feel like hell," he admitted softly, and he opened his eyes to see her face creased with worry as she stared at him through bright eyes. "Getting the stitches out today… I guess that did a number on me."

"Steve said you couldn't keep down the soup at lunch." Her voice was soft and gentle.

He started to nod, then thought better of it. Snorting slightly instead, he tried a faint smile. "No, I definitely could not. I don't think Steve was impressed," he chuckled slightly and was rewarded by her brief smile.

He closed his eyes again and his smile disappeared. She increased the pressure on his chest, this time in alarm. "You didn't answer my question," he said quietly. When she didn't say anything right away, he continued, a smile creeping back to lips, "I asked you how _you_ were feeling." He opened his eyes and stared at her.

She managed a warm smile back, rubbing his chest gently. "Better than you… now." The last word was barely a whisper, but it brought tears to his eyes and he reached for her again. She grabbed his hand and brought it to her lips, as for a split second the horror that they had barely survived came rushing back for them both.

Still holding his hand, she tried another smile. "You should eat something… do you feel like trying again?"

He stared at her, knowing he wasn't quite up to it but also knowing that he would do anything for her at this moment. So he nodded slowly and carefully, and grinned as best he could. "Sure, why not?"

She kissed the back of his hand then let it go, her smile getting a little wider as she slid off the bed. "I'll go tell _the kids_ ," she chuckled gently, then almost seemed to catch herself, as if realizing this was the first time she had seen humour in anything since that fateful night. It was a term of affection they had used between them when talking about Jeannie and Steve, and one they'd vowed never to use in anyone else's company.

Irene had realized, when they had awoken, that it was now evening; no sunlight was seeping around the drawn curtains and the small bedside table lamp had been turned on. The blanket that had been partially draped over them was another indication that the younger couple had been in and out of the room several times during the day; the reality of their care and concern filled her with a warmth and gratitude that went beyond words.

He followed her with his eyes as she crossed to the door, closing them with a soft moan when she disappeared out into the hall. A wave of nausea swept over him and he instinctively grabbed the bedspread with both hands as if he could will the discomfort away. Trembling, he tried to slow his breathing, hoping he could regain some measure of control before she returned with Steve and Jeannie in tow.

# # # # #

Steve was laying his crib hand down on the kitchen table when they heard an upstairs door open and close and footsteps on the staircase. Glancing at each other with raised eyebrows, they both got quickly to their feet as an anxious but remarkably composed Irene appeared at the entrance. Startled, she took a step back, a hand shooting to her mouth then she smiled.

"Hi," Jeannie said with a smile, reaching out to gently grab the older woman's forearm then frowning slightly, "are you okay?"

Starting to smile, Irene nodded. "Mike's awake." She glanced anxiously from Jeannie to Steve, and the two younger people knew instantly Irene was not going to talk about herself. Her concern was for Mike right now and, for the time being, that was the best thing. "He's still in a lot of discomfort, but he wants to try eating again."

Grinning, Jeannie glanced at Steve; he was smiling too. "That's, ah, that's great news," she said with a gentle chuckle, turning slightly towards the stove. "And I bet you're hungry too, right?" Without waiting for a reply, she stepped towards the stove as Steve walked to the counter and opened a cupboard door. "I have two kinds of soup on the go, a chicken consommé for Mike and something with a little more… substance for you, chicken vegetable. You want some?"

Irene, who had been watching and listening with appreciation, nodded softly. "As long as I can eat with Mike."

"Of course," Steve chuckled from his position at the counter, where he had placed two large soup bowls on a bed tray, along with spoons and napkins.

Jeannie turned to him. "Steve, I can get this and bring it up. Why don't you go on ahead up with Irene and get Mike sitting up?"

"Good idea. Irene?" he turned to the older woman, holding out his arm for her to take.

She wrapped both hands around his forearm and, as he started to lead her out of the kitchen towards the staircase, leaned towards him and spoke softly, as if she didn't want Jeannie to hear. "Steve, Mike seems to be in so much pain. I'm worried about him."

With a calmness that belied the sudden pounding of his heart, Steve met her eyes evenly. "Let's go see."

# # # # #

Mike had managed to get the nausea under control and even managed to push himself up slightly. He heard footsteps on the stairs and turned towards the door, pasting an almost normal, welcoming smile on his face as the door opened and Irene preceded Steve into the room.

Her worried frown eased slightly when she saw him, and he reached out towards her as she crossed to the bed. She sat beside him and he pulled her close for a kiss, unembarrassed in front of his grinning partner, who hovered over them.

"How are you feeling?" Steve asked as Irene sat back, keeping her hand comfortingly on Mike's arm.

He looked up at his young partner, trying his best to smile disarmingly but Steve wasn't fooled; they'd known each other too long for that. He shook his head slightly, "Not so good. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten those stitches out today."

Grimacing, Steve nodded. "Irene says you feel like trying to eat again."

Mike glanced at her and smiled. "Why not? It can't turn out any worse that earlier, could it? How many more changes of clothes do you have?" He chuckled gently and Steve did as well.

"Here, lean forward a bit," he instructed, and Mike did as he was told. With Irene's help, Steve slipped a couple of pillows behind him and Mike leaned back, now almost sitting straight up.

"I'll let Jeannie feed you this time," Steve laughed, turning towards the door as Jeannie entered with the bed tray.

"Room service!" she announced brightly, grinning when her eyes fell on her father. She crossed to the bed, Irene rising to make room, and she set the tray over her father's legs.

Mike inhaled deeply. "That smells good." He turned his beaming face on his daughter and she laughed as she sat on the edge of the bed.

"It _is_ good," she admitted proudly, "and there's a bowl for each of you. Steve and I ate ages ago." She glanced at the younger man and he grinned back as he pulled an armchair closer to the bed and gestured for Irene to take a seat. As she did so, he disappeared out into the hallway for a beat, returning with a TV tray that he set up in front of the armchair and transferred her bowl of soup and cutlery to it. Irene smiled at him in thanks.

She took a tentative sip and smiled approvingly at Jeannie, then all eyes turned to the bed as Mike reached out and took the spoon from his daughter's hand with an almost cackling chuckle. "I'm a big boy and I can feed myself," he taunted her with an evil grin and she giggled, relieved to see him seemingly well enough to start joking again. He took a tentative sip after blowing on the spoon, smiled in appreciation of the taste, then waited several seconds after swallowing before looking up at Steve and winking. "So far, so good."

Steve chuckled. "I somehow think it takes a little longer than that." But, also relieved that Mike seemed in better spirits, no doubt because of Irene's presence, he allowed himself to relax. He headed downstairs and reappeared moments later with a kitchen chair, setting it down near Irene.

As the older couple slowly ate under their watchful eyes, conversation remained at a premium, but no one seemed to mind. Jeannie told Irene that she had brought some of her things to the house so she didn't have to go home, and was delighted when Irene told her it was a wonderful idea. Steve explained their plan: Mike and Irene in the master bedroom, Jeannie in her own room and Steve on the living room couch.

They sounded so very much like a typical family at Thanksgiving, working out the sleeping arrangements. It was a fragile grip on normality they all sorely needed at the moment.

# # # # #

"Wow, you ate the whole bowl," Jeannie sounded impressed as she picked up the bed tray and took a step back. "How do you feel?"

Her father looked up at her, his eyes heavy, but he managed a soft smile. "Better, thanks…"

"How's your head?"

He blinked slowly and heavily. "It still hurts," he admitted as Steve appeared over Jeannie's shoulder.

"I talked to your doctor earlier today. He said it's probably a reaction to the numbing agent they used on your scalp this morning. He told me if you don't feel better in a couple of days to come in to see him again." Steve ignored Jeannie's quick glance in his direction. She knew he was not being completely truthful; in fact, the doctor had told Steve that if Mike wasn't feeling better in the morning, he wanted to see him immediately. His little white lie opened the door for Mike to be completely open with him in the morning, instead of potentially hiding any ongoing ill effects.

"I'll get a fresh glass of water and you can take a couple more aspirin, then I want you to go back to sleep," Jeannie said with a no-nonsense glare.

Mike nodded slowly, then grinned. He raised his eyebrows and gestured with his chin in Irene's direction. "As long as she sleeps with me."

Both younger people turned in her direction, but Irene only had eyes for Mike. With a warm grin, and looking a lot more like her old self, she stepped to the bed and sat beside him, tenderly laying a hand on the side of his face.

"Well," Steve said shortly, with a self-conscious cough, "on that note, Jeannie and I will leave you two to your own devices. Irene, I'll bring your bag up. And, ah, we're outa here." He stepped quickly to the door and opened it, letting Jeannie and the bed tray slip out first, then turned back and, with a lascivious wink, closed the door.

# # # # #

SFPD Sergeant Bob Wilson sipped his beer, then picked up the briefcase and set it on the table in the hotel bar. He glanced at his watch; he'd left a wake-up call request for 5 am. That 7 a.m. flight to LA couldn't come soon enough, he thought; barring complications, he'd be back in San Francisco shortly after noon.

As he opened the briefcase and took out his notebook and file folder, he contemplated once more giving Steve a call. The three-hour time difference worked in his favour, but he knew he really wanted to be able to see his new partner's face when he told him what he'd found out during this trip east.

Wilson opened the file folder and rifled through the contents; he felt happier than he had in days. This trip had been well worth the time and expense.

He closed the folder and sat back, taking another sip of beer. He knew that when the airplane wheels touched down in San Francisco the next afternoon, the hunt would finally be on.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 24**

Blissfully alone, after Steve had delivered her bag, Irene helped Mike get into his pajamas. Though still in a good deal of pain, he made his way to the bathroom and by the time he returned, she was in her own pajamas and sitting on the bed, leaning back the pillows piled against the headboard.

He frowned in puzzlement, a slight but warm smile playing over his lips as she opened her arms. He climbed slowly and carefully back onto the bed, lying beside her, and she pulled him gently towards her, cradling him, his head against her chest.

As she tenderly caressed his face, they both shifted slightly, settling in, getting cozy and snug, and she felt and heard him sigh. "Comfortable?" she asked quietly as she kissed the top of his head. The sight and feel of the thick gauze bandage still scared her, still made her heart freeze.

She heard him chuckle softly. "Oh, yeah," he whispered and she felt his hand begin to slide across her stomach then stop just over her navel. She felt his whole body tense and he held his breath. Slowly he pulled his head out of her embrace and, as he lifted her pajama top, she felt him kiss her belly.

She threw her head back slightly and closed her eyes, her own breath catching as she tried to stop the gasp that tore from her throat. Tears sprung to her eyes. After several long seconds, he raised his head to lie once more against her chest, his arm circling her waist, holding her tight. Keeping her eyes closed and trying to control her shaking hands, she cradled him, gently stroking his tear wet cheeks, oblivious to her own tears slowly sliding down her stricken face.

They still had a long way to go, she knew; but the healing had begun. She kissed the top of his head again and felt his arm tighten around her waist.

# # # # #

"Well, I sure hope he's feeling better in the morning. God knows what Irene'll do if they have to admit him to the hospital again," Jeannie sighed worriedly as she placed the last of the now clean dishes in the rack.

"Me too," Steve agreed as he picked up the plate to dry it. He knew Wilson would be returning early afternoon, hopefully with some good news. But Mike's health was his main priority; for him, the investigation would always take a back seat.

Wiping down the counter, Jeannie said over her shoulder, "I don't know about you, but I'm beat. Long day. I'm gonna get an early night and hope and pray tomorrow is just a regular day at home."

He put the now dry plate in the cupboard and closed the door, hanging the wet dishtowel over the stove handle. "I couldn't agree more."

With one more look around the kitchen to make sure everything was clean and tidy, Jeannie took off the apron and hung it over the back of a chair. As she crossed past Steve towards the living room, she stopped to give him a brief peck on the cheek. "Don't stay up too late and I'll see you in the morning. Hopefully it'll be a good day. We deserve one, don't you think?"

Grinning warmly, he nodded. "Amen."

At the steps she turned back. "Thanks for all the help today. Made things a lot easier."

"Are you kidding? I'd do anything for Mike and Irene, you know that," he laughed quietly. "And for you too, right?"

She grinned self-consciously then nodded. "Yeah, I do know. Sleep well." She disappeared up the stairs.

He sighed heavily and turned to lean against the counter, glancing at his watch. It was just shortly after ten and, although he was beat, he knew his racing mind wouldn't let him go to sleep anytime soon. He grabbed a beer out of the fridge and opened it, crossing to the sofa and sitting heavily, leaning back and putting his feet on the coffee table.

Taking a long draft, he cradled the bottle in both hands in his lap and let his head drop back against the sofa. His eyes flicked towards the staircase. What if Mike did have to go back to the hospital? What if he wasn't doing as well as it had seemed? Was there a possibility he'd never return to active duty? Were their days as partners really over? Would Irene ever return to work?

And what, hopefully, had Wilson uncovered in New York? Had his contact there actually been of any help? Were the Russian mob involved? Were Irene's attackers the same ones that had targeted prostitutes?

He sighed. He knew it would be quite awhile until he could quell the voices in his mind; he half contemplated taking a sleeping pill so he could get some rest. But he knew that was a very bad idea if either Mike or Irene needed him during the night.

He looked at the beer bottle in his hand. Better he only drink the one, he thought, resigning himself to a long night of little sleep.

# # # # #

The sounds seemed to be snaking their way to him through thick, murky water; he couldn't quite figure out what they were, but they did seem familiar. There were no words, but he could hear what sounded like metal on metal in a rhythmic cycle, and a large door being opened and closed with suction but also a surprising softness. And footsteps, going up and down stairs, suddenly nearby and then fading abruptly.

With sleep-deprived lethargy he raised one hand and pulled the blanket from his face. The lacey tendrils of a very pleasant smell assailed his nose and he blinked quickly several times, his head starting to clear. He knew he recognized the odour but couldn't quite put a name to it as yet.

Licking dry lips, he forced his heavy lids open as wide as possible, his fuzzy vision zeroing in on the light that spilled from the adjacent room, which he slowly remembered was the kitchen. As he raised a hand to palm the sleep out of his eyes, Jeannie poked her head through the opening and looked at him, her eyebrows raised.

"Oh good, you're finally up. Just in time. I need your help." Her head disappeared into the kitchen as quickly as it had appeared.

Slowly pushing the blanket away and attempting to sit up, all the questions and worries from last night came flooding back. Suddenly focused, his cop's instincts kicking in, he scrambled to his feet and quickly crossed to the kitchen. "What's going on?" he asked anxiously, clearing his throat. "Is Mike okay?"

Jeannie, who was facing the stove, turned with a smile. "Better than okay. He says he's starving. I'm making them some oatmeal and I need you to help me take it up." She turned back to the pot on the stove.

After having frozen in alarmed anticipation, Steve sagged in relief against the doorframe, chuckling. He let out a sigh loud enough for her to hear and she laughed gently as she picked up the pot and swiveled to the two bowls sitting on the counter, spooning out the steaming oatmeal. The bed tray was nearby, already set with napkins, spoons, a mug of hot milk and a bowl of brown sugar.

"I've already brought them coffee," she explained. "Here, you bring this up to them and I'll bring up coffees for you and me." She glanced up at him and grinned. "I figure you and I can eat a little later."

"Ah, sure," he agreed, laughing gently as he pushed himself away from the wall and crossed to the counter. She beamed at him as he approached and he stopped briefly to give her a warm kiss on the cheek before picking up the tray.

The atmosphere of joy and relief was almost alive in the air.

# # # # #

Steve pushed the bedroom door open with his foot. "Breakfast is served!" he announced with a flourish as he strode into the room. He heart almost leapt in his chest when his eyes, travelling from the tray to the bed, settled on its beaming occupants.

Irene and Mike, in dressing gowns over their pajamas, were still lying in the bed, sitting up against the pillows, his arm around her. "Good morning," he said brightly, his voice almost back to normal.

Approaching the bed, Steve's eyebrows rose. "Where do you want this?" he asked, nodding at the tray in his hands and the older couple, after a glance at each other, shuffled apart.

"How about right here between us?" Irene, who was furthest away, said with a smile, and Steve was struck by how calm and relaxed she sounded.

He had just put the tray down when Jeannie came through the door with two cups of coffee in hand. Glancing at Mike as he straightened, Steve asked, "How are _you_ doing?"

With a low self-conscious chuckle, looking down briefly, the older man said quietly, "I feel great… well, as good as I felt before yesterday, that's for sure."

Steve knew that sometimes Mike was overwhelmed by others concern for him; this was one of those moments. Unable to resist, he reached out and affectionately ran his hand gently across the older man's cheek to the back of his neck, squeezing quickly and firmly. He saw Mike's eyes cloud and his smile waver, and he winked before turning to Jeannie and taking the proffered cup.

The next hour was spent in joyful, and relieved, companionship.

# # # # #

"So, first things first, how are Irene and Mike doing?"

It was mid-afternoon in an almost deserted Greek restaurant in the Marina District; it was a good place not to be noticed in the middle of the day. Bob Wilson was on his second Turkish coffee when Steve dropped anxiously into the second chair; the Robbery sergeant nodded at the waiter, who returned the nod and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Oh, ah, I just ordered you a Turkish coffee – you okay with that?"

"Ah, yeah, sure." Steve grinned, knowing immediately that Wilson did have something to tell him and was just drawing out the suspense. "And Mike and Irene are doing good. We moved Irene to Mike's place," Wilson's eyebrows shot skyward, "Mike had the stitches out yesterday and had a bad reaction to it," the eyebrows furrowed, "but he's okay today and they spent the night together last night." Steve smiled affectionately. "They both needed that. They've still got a hell of a long way to go, but I think they're on the right track. So… that's my news, what's yours?"

Wilson smiled, the relief obvious. He exhaled loudly. "God, you know, they've been on my mind this entire trip. I still can't begin to wrap my head around what both of them have been going through, you know. It almost makes our job the easy one here, you know what I mean?"

Steve nodded, no longer smiling. "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean." There was a brief pause, then "So? What did you get?"

The waiter approached discreetly and set the small cup and saucer and the metal coffeepot on the table in front of the younger man.

Wilson sat back, taking a sip from his own cup as Steve poured, then smiled. "Well, I have good news and bad news." Steve's anticipatory smile faded somewhat as he looked up. "So, I met with the guy I'd talked to on the phone. And he confirmed the rumors and what we'd been speculating… Look, I'll go over everything in detail with you, but I think right now you just want me to get to point, right?"

Wilson smiled with raised eyebrows and Steve glared at him from under his brow, then nodded with a gentle smirk.

"That's what I thought," Wilson laughed. "My source was… how shall I put it?... Helpful and not helpful. He confirmed what we thought – the FBI does have two or three Russian mob members out here in WP. That's as far as he knows, he told me, but he was able to confirm that one of them has a record back east of rape and sexual assault. His M.O. is using tape over mouths and eyes, an accomplice… and a propensity for prostitutes. But, because of his value to the Feds and what he has and can continue to tell them about the workings of the eastern mob, they, ah…" Wilson paused and looked down, taking a deep breath, his voice turning cold, "they haven't followed up on any of the charges against him."

Steve, who was stirring his coffee, froze. Though they knew this was common practice and a fact of life, they didn't have to like it. Especially when it hit so close to home.

Wilson inhaled deeply and let it out in a loud rush. "Anyway, uh, my contact was able to give me this guy's name, but that's not really a help because, of course, in WP he's got a whole new identity." He shrugged in frustration, shooting his new partner a facial shrug.

His brow still furrowed, Steve sat back. "Well, that's all good to know, but what help is it to us?"

Wilson slowly leaned forward. "Well, he wasn't able to give us this guy's new name, or where he's living or anything like that…but he did give me something I think we _can_ use."

As Steve leaned forward, intrigued, Wilson reached into his inside jacket pocket. "I think this might be even better." His hand flicked quickly and something slid across the table towards the younger man. It was a 3x5 inch colour photograph. Wilson's hand moved across the table and his finger slammed down on the print. "That's our man."


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 25**

Without expression, Steve stared at Wilson's smiling face as he picked up the photo and brought it closer. As the Robbery sergeant nodded once, the younger man's eyes refocused on the 3x5 in his hand, at the image of the man whose identity they'd been trying to uncover, the man who was now the target of their impending manhunt.

It had been taken at a distance, but the features were still easily discernible. A head and shoulders shot, in three-quarter profile, it was impossible to tell the man's height, but his athletic build was unmistakable. The clean-shaven bullethead, large hooked nose and cruel slash of a mouth burned easily into Steve's highly-trained cop's mind; and he knew without asking that Wilson had also already committed the facial characteristics to memory.

"This was taken about three years ago, I was told. So, chances are, he's not bald anymore and he could have facial hair now as well. He's about five-eleven, six feet. And he speaks with a heavy accent – that won't have changed, thank god." Wilson paused, clearing his throat slightly, and Steve looked up at him. The older man's eyebrows rose. "Rumor has it, I was told, that he has quite a… smorgasbord of tattoos on his chest and back, but he didn't know what of. I was told that one of them was an eagle carrying a nude woman, whatever the hell that means."

"There's a guy in Quentin, a guard – Mike knows him… we talked to him about tattoos once just after I joined Homicide. He might know or, if he doesn't, maybe he can turn us onto someone who does. May be worth a shot…?" Wilson nodded. "I'll ask Mike about him."

"Great. So," Wilson sighed, reaching for the photo, "I'm gonna get a couple of copies made of this at my local pharmacy so we each have a copy and maybe can hand a few out. But I've been thinking… we've gotta make sure the Feds don't get any kind of whiff about what we're doing or this is gonna disappear right before our eyes. I don't want that to happen and I'm pretty sure you don't either. I want to keep this just between you and me…" He stared at the younger man, tilting his head questioningly.

Steve nodded, briefly closing his eyes, relieved that Wilson felt the same way.

"I'm pretty sure Irene doesn't want to know anything about this," Wilson continued, "but do you think Mike…?"

With a mirthless snort, Steve shook his head. "No, ah, he knows what we're up to, no doubt about that… I mean, we kinda tipped our hand… but wanting to know the details…?" He shook his head again. "He's got enough on his plate right now… getting both himself and Irene healthy again… and that's gonna be tough. They've got a lot to overcome." Remembering that Wilson was still unaware of the miscarriage, and knowing that the decision to tell him or not was completely up to Irene, Steve stopped himself before he said too much.

Wilson nodded, looking down; he was beginning to wonder if life would return to normal, if he'd ever get his partner back.

Sensing the sudden melancholia emanating from the other side of the table, Steve asked with renewed vigor, "So, what do you think we should do first? I know you've been thinking about it all the way back on the plane." He chuckled gently and was relieved to see a warm, embarrassed smile on the sergeant's open face.

"You got me there," Wilson admitted, leaning forward and putting the photo back in his jacket pocket. "Well, if it's all the same to you, I'd like to start fresh tomorrow morning? It's been a long couple of days for me and I'd like to get home for a bit and get a good night's sleep. And do a laundry… a laundry is damn near a necessity right now," he laughed.

Steve chuckled. "I've been there, believe me. But that sounds great to me too; I'd like to have dinner with Mike, Irene and Jeannie tonight 'cause I think we're gonna be tied up for the next little while…" He looked at Wilson questioningly. "Hey, ah, you want to join us? I think everybody'd love to see you."

Wilson looked down, toying with his coffee up, and his warm smile disappeared. He cleared his throat self-consciously. "No, ah, I… I want to give Irene a little more time, you know..."

"Sure, sure…" the younger man agreed softly, trying to sound understanding. But he was puzzled by the decision. He knew Wilson had spent time with Irene in the first days after the attack, and as far as he knew nothing untoward had happened; Irene had been, if not happy, at least open to seeing him. This change in attitude was confusing but he decided not to press the issue right now.

"Anyway," Wilson said a little louder as he leaned back, anxious to change the subject, "I was thinking that first thing tomorrow morning we get to work in earnest. I think we should avoid going into the Hall, what do _you_ think?"

Smiling, Steve nodded. "I think you're right, we've gotta play this very close to the vest. Why don't we use my place?"

"On Union?" Steve nodded and Wilson shrugged. "Sounds perfect. Oh, and you should call Rudy and tell him we're still on the clock but just not coming in. I'll call Derek."

"Yeah, I'll do that," Steve said, pouring the rest of the thick, dark coffee from the pot into his cup.

"Do you have the SF phone book at your place?" Steve nodded. "An Oakland one?"

Frowning, Steve shook his head. "No, why?"

"Well, I have a feeling that a good ol' Russian boy like our friend here," he tapped his jacket over the pocket with the photo, "he probably likes to indulge himself with reminders of home, don't you think? Like, I don't know, the cuisine from behind the Iron Curtain…?"

Impressed, Steve smiled with a facial shrug and a nod. "Good thinking. How about I start with The City directory and you get your hands on an Oakland one and we'll get a list going?"

"My plan exactly. I'll take the photo into the pharmacy first thing in the morning then head over to Oakland and get a phonebook. And maybe we should try further down the peninsula as well, what do you think? And across the bridge? Marin, San Jose, Palo Alto? You never know…"

"Well, one thing I _do_ know," Steve said with a sigh, picking up his cup, "we've got a lot a work ahead of us."

# # # # #

"How are you feeling?" Jeannie asked with a worried smile as she stood, glancing at Irene as she reached across the kitchen table for her father's empty plate and stacking it on the others.

From under the thick bandage, Mike looked up at her and smiled. "I'm fine," he said patiently. "I wish you'd stop asking me that."

"Unh-hunh," Jeannie said dryly, raising her eyebrows at Irene as she turned to the counter, "like you'd tell me if you weren't…"

The older woman dropped her head, trying to hide the small smile that played across her lips. Mike looked at her with mild indignity as Jeannie chuckled. He had felt well enough to get out of bed, get dressed and join his daughter and Irene for lunch in the kitchen.

As encouraged as she was with her father's progress, Jeannie was still very worried about Irene. The spark that had always shone in her eyes was gone and, though the older woman seemed relieved and comfortable at Mike's side, there was an obvious emptiness in her heart and soul that nothing seemed to help at the moment.

Jeannie glanced back at the table; Mike was staring at Irene, smiling with a sad encouragement, holding her hand on the table. With a heavy though silent sigh, she turned back to the counter, knowing that they all still had a lot to overcome, both physically and psychologically, before life would begin to get back to some kind of normalcy, if ever.

She took a carton of Rocky Road ice cream out of the freezer and spooned it into three dishes. As she placed the bowls and spoons in front of the older couple and turned back for her own bowl, Mike said, "Um, sweetheart, I know I haven't been paying much attention to things lately, but, ah, it's December, right?" There was a lightness in his tone but Jeannie could tell he was about to broach a serious subject. She braced herself.

Chuckling, she nodded as she sat, glancing at Irene, who was staring at her blankly, obviously not knowing what was up either. "And…?"

"And don't you have, you know, exams to write?" Mike asked, raising his eyebrows as far as he could under the bandage.

Jeannie stared at him, briefly immobile, then laughed and relaxed. "Oh, that?" She grinned as she glanced at Irene once more and shook her head. "You don't have to worry about that, Mike, I have it all under control." She drove her spoon into the ice cream.

"What do you mean you have it all under control?" Her father's tone was curious yet firm.

Still smiling, she looked directly into his concerned eyes. "I'm way ahead of you, for a change… I called my professors a few days ago and explained everything. They understood completely – they really _are_ nice people, you know… And it's been arranged that I am going to sit all my exams here at State." Her grin got wider. "Happy?" She popped the ice cream-filled spoon into her mouth.

With a short, elated, surprised snort, Mike looked from his daughter to Irene, who was smiling at the younger woman. "So, ah," he asked quietly, "so you don't have to go back to Arizona…?"

Jeannie's grin wavered; she knew exactly what her father was getting at, and she quickly blinked away the sudden moisture in her eyes. She shook her head slowly, staring at the face she loved so much. "I'm here for as long as you need me… Daddy…"

Looking down, swallowing heavily, Mike nodded, trying to smile. He felt Irene's hand tighten on his own but he didn't trust himself to look up at her.

Jeannie's eyes swung back and forth from her father to Irene, their guilt, pain and heartache still so achingly obvious. She cleared her throat gently then challenged brightly, "So, you two up for a little crib action?"

# # # # #

"Jeannie, you have outdone yourself again," Steve proclaimed as he forked another slice of pot roast onto his plate.

"Why thank you, sir," she acknowledged with a grin as she picked up the gravy boat and passed it across the table.

Smiling as he chewed, Mike stared proudly at his daughter, his eyes sliding once more to Irene beside him. He had been watching her closely all evening, his hand gliding across the tablecloth more than once to grip her forearm and offer a comforting squeeze. She would look up into his eyes and smile but continued to offer little in the way of conversation. But she _was_ eating, and he was grateful for that.

Steve glanced at his partner, pleased to see that Mike was doing so much better and, at last, eating something substantial. It was important to him right now that the older man was making noticeable progress; one less thing to worry about, he thought. He had a feeling the next few days were going to be long and potentially dangerous, both physically and professionally. He needed, and wanted, to be at his sharpest.

He looked around the table, at the two people who had, in the past few years, become not only his surrogate family but the most important thing in his life. A lucky happenstance had brought him into their world; and, if he was lucky, he knew he would be a part of it for a very long time to come. The warm contentment burned like an ember in his soul.

"Steve." He heard his name being called and involuntarily shook his head, blinking and coming back to the room. A gentle chuckle reached his ears and he turned his head to look into Mike's warm, amused blue eyes.

He smiled back, coughing self-consciously. Mike's smile slowly disappeared; Steve stared back, somehow knowing that the older man knew exactly what was going through his mind.

Jeannie started to stand up. "Everyone up for some fresh baked apple pie?" she asked, knowing the question was really academic. When Steve looked at her, she grinned, "Hey, I had a lot of time on my hands today – what else was I to do?" She crossed to the counter.

"I'll give you a hand," Irene said quietly and, glancing reassuringly at Mike, got up to help.

Alone at the table, Mike looked back at his young partner. Their eyes met and held, and for several long seconds neither moved. Then the older man said quietly, "You be careful, you hear me."

Tears springing instantly to his eyes, Steve blinked quickly, catching his breath. He nodded, trying to smile. "I will," he whispered.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 26**

Steve opened the door onto a panting Bob Wilson; he had a briefcase in one hand and a stack of what looked to be phone books in the other. The younger man stepped back quickly as the Robbery sergeant stumbled over the threshold and crossed quickly to the coffee table in the living room, dropping his load with a window-rattling thud.

Eyebrows raised and a smirk lighting his features, Steve slowly closed the door, chuckling. "Wow, you made good time."

With a gasp and a cough, Wilson turned, straightening up and stretching his back. "Well, I finally got some good luck. The Pacific Telephone office in Oakland had books for San Jose, Palo Alto, South San, Sausalito and even Sacramento. Saved me a lot of trips but, shit, are they heavy!"

Continuing to chuckle, Steve crossed to the coffee table and picked up the top one; about an inch thick, it was the yellow and white pages for Palo Alto.

Still trying to catch his breath, Wilson opened the briefcase and took out a couple of yellow legal pads and a thick white envelope about 4x7 inches. He opened the top of the envelope and tipped it, letting several photographs slide out onto his hand. " _And_ I got the prints made – told them it was a priority." He grinned at his new partner. "Sometimes flashing a badge has a… beneficial effect. So – what have you accomplished this morning?"

Laughing, Steve dropped heavily onto the couch and rifled through the phone books, picking up the Oakland Yellow Pages and flipping it open. "Well, I made a list of the Russian restaurants here in The City, and…" he looked up, meeting Wilson's stare, "I had a good talk with Rudy. Bob, I trust him, almost as much as I trust Mike, and I think someone with a little more authority than we have should be aware of what we're doing. It could get a little hairy."

Wilson's brow furrowed, but he understood what Steve was saying. He had to admit that he, too, was uncomfortable flying so low under the radar; always a 'by the book' detective, knowing they had the approval, or at least the calculated disregard, of a superior officer helped to assuage his guilt.

"I didn't give him the details, but I roughed out the big picture. He didn't say much, but he did have one suggestion that I think we should give some serious thought to…" Steve paused, and when he didn't continue right away, a frowning Wilson sat in the armchair, waiting. "He said, and I agree with him, that when we find the guy we're looking for and bring him in for questioning… and I'm assuming that's what we intend to do…" Steve cleared his throat slightly then continued, "he wants us to do it the right way, bring him into the Hall and put him in an interrogation room. Everything by the book. That way, if we _can_ nail him for the rapes with absolute certainly, then we'll have the upper hand on the Feds when they get word of it… and they _will_ … and come to get him."

Wilson nodded with a facial shrug. "That makes sense. God knows, I don't want to have to hand him over to the Feds and he walks." His brow furrowed again. "How well do you know Gerry O'Brien?"

"The ADA? Really well. So does Mike. Why?"

"Do you think he might be, ah… conducive to greasing some wheels, so to speak, in our favor, you know, vis-à-vis the Feds?"

Smiling slyly, Steve nodded. "Yeah, I think he can be persuaded, especially when he finds out what exactly has been going on here."

The Robbery sergeant nodded, smiling grimly and looking down. Though he was loathe to admit it, even to himself, revenge had been a longing and a need that had taken root deep in his soul.

"All right, partner," he said with enthusiasm, standing up to take his jacket off, taking a pen out of the pocket before setting it over the arm of the chair, "let's get to work." Laying one of the legal pads on the coffee table, he picked up the top Yellow Pages and flipped to the back, looking for the 'R's'.

# # # # #

An hour later, armed with a long list of, hopefully, all the Russian restaurants and café's on the peninsula, they got into Wilson's grey Impala, figuring that the Porsche would call too much attention to itself. As they settled into the front seat, Steve chuckled. "Remind me to ask Mike tonight if I can borrow his Fairlane. We're gonna need two cars if we're gonna do any tailing."

"Will do."

Steve had taken out two of the prints of their suspect and set one on the dash. Wilson glanced over as he started the car and shifted into Drive. "Um, flip your visor down."

Shooting a confused look across the seat, Steve did as he was told and chuckled. Anchored by two elastic bands on either end, the photo was securely fastened to the visor, easily visible and, even more importantly, able to be hidden in a snap. "Ah ha, clever boy," he nodded appreciatively and Wilson laughed as they pulled into traffic.

# # # # #

They had decided to keep a very low profile on their first day on the hunt. They would eyeball each establishment in The City they had on their list, and try to figure out which one should command their closer attention first. There were three outright Russian restaurants, plus another four eastern European eateries that could attract a Soviet clientele.

By the time they had checked out all seven it was dinnertime, and they stopped at a steakhouse for a t-bone and fries and to figure out what their next move should be. One place, called Samovar, seemed to be just middle-of-the-road enough to appeal to the kind of customer they hoped their suspect would be; they appeared to serve good, cheap food that stuck to the ribs.

They were paying their bill when Steve decided to use the payphone to make a call in to the office. Wilson went out to wait in the car.

It was a good ten minutes later before the younger man opened the passenger side door and got in, slamming the door as he sighed heavily, his head dropping back onto the seat rest. "I just talked to Beverly," he announced without preamble, staring through the windshield. "There was another rape three nights ago. She just found out this afternoon. The girl doesn't want to talk to anyone, but Beverly said she told her enough to know it was the same guys."

"God damn it." Wilson's heavy breathing echoed inside the car. He shook his head angrily. "We've gotta get these bastards, Steve… and I'm beginning not to care how we do it."

Steve didn't say anything; the blood was still pounding in his ears. They sat in silence for several long seconds then Wilson started the car. As he shifted into Drive and pulled away from the curb, he said quietly, "I don't know about you, but I want to sit outside Samovar tonight for couple of hours. Even if we don't see the bastard, it'll make me feel like I'm doing something instead of just sitting on my ass."

Nodding, Steve said nothing, his own anger and frustration threatening to get the better of him, he knew.

# # # # #

It was close to midnight when Steve slid the key out of the lock as quietly as he could and entered the almost pitch dark house. The light over the stove was on; he knew Jeannie had left it on for him. Slipping off his shoes and his jacket, he padded into the kitchen. He was still too wound up from the day and decided to have a beer and try to relax before attempting to get any sleep.

He popped the cap off the bottle with the church key and took a long sip, leaning against the counter. He was just about to take another sip when a soft noise from the direction of the living room caught his attention and he looked up to see Mike, in his pajamas and dressing gown, appear in the doorway.

"I was wondering when you were gonna get home," he said softly with a warm smile.

Smiling back, Steve nodded. "Yeah, it was a long day."

"Wanna talk about it?" Mike asked almost nonchalantly, but the younger man wasn't fooled; he knew Mike was dying to find out what was going on. But as much as he wanted to share with his partner, Steve knew it wasn't a good idea, for either of them. So he would talk to him about his day, but only in the vaguest of terms.

The older man turned around and headed for the armchair, turning on the table lamp when he got there before sitting slowly and carefully.

"What are you doing up?" Steve asked quietly as he sat on the couch, beer bottle still in hand.

Making himself comfortable, Mike looked at him almost embarrassedly. "I, ah, I couldn't sleep…"

"Are you feeling okay?" Steve asked quickly, eyebrows knit.

Mike held up a hand. "I'm fine, really. Irene dropped right off to sleep, which is wonderful 'cause she hasn't been sleeping too well… but I just couldn't get my mind to stop… you know…" He twirled an index finger and the younger man grinned.

"How is she doing?" There was such a heartfelt concern in Steve's voice that Mike's smile disappeared and his eyes clouded. He shrugged.

"To be perfectly honest, Steve, I don't know. She hasn't been talking to me about it at all, and I'm letting her… you know… control the pace… let her lead the way…" He paused and took a deep breath, looking down. "But, I don't know… I don't know what to do to help her and… I just feel so useless…"

Steve looked on helplessly. When the older man's voice trailed off, he leaned forward slightly. "I don't think you're useless to her at all, Mike. I think you're just what she needs right now." He paused for several seconds. "Neither one of us will ever know what she went through… but from what I've heard and read and seen over the years, just you being there for her, allowing her to come to grips with this in her own way… I think that's the best thing for both of you…"

Mike nodded heavily, still looking down. Then he inhaled deeply and his head came up. "So, you were gonna tell me about your day?" He smiled mischievously.

Steve chuckled. The dark circles that still surrounded his partner's eyes were worrisome, and it only served to bring home the reality that it would be weeks before he would have Mike back at his side. "Let's just say it was Police Work 101. Back to basics. You know, looking in phone books, driving past places and checking out the locals. Putting miles on poor Bob's car. That kind of thing."

"Which is your way of telling me you can't tell me, right?" Mike looked at him with faux disappointment.

"Exactly right," Steve grinned amiably, then his features sobered. "You know I can't, right?"

His own face suddenly serious, Mike nodded. "I know," he said softly. "Just get the bastards, will you?"

His throat suddenly constricting, Steve nodded. They stared at each other for a beat, then the younger man suddenly shook his head. "Oh, that reminds me – can I borrow your car? We may need to do some tailing and well… you know, the Porsche…"

With an exaggerated sigh and abbreviated eye roll, being hampered somewhat by the bandage still around his head, Mike chuckled. "Well, this is gonna be interesting, 'cause Jeannie needs to get back and forth to the library and run errands and all that. Is she allowed to drive your pride and joy?"

Steve's anticipatory smile quickly disappeared. "Oh, right… I hadn't thought of that. Does she, ah, does she drive stick?"

Mike grinned. "No. But I guess she'll learn."

The younger man looked stricken. "Ah, what, ah, what about Irene's car?"

"What about it?"

"Could, ah, could Jeannie use, ah, Irene's car?"

"Irene's car's not here. It's at Irene's."

"Shit," Steve muttered softly, looking askance, and Mike's grin got wider.

"Well," the older man said, getting slowly to his feet, "while you're contemplating that dilemma, I am going to bed." He pushed himself up slowly, closing his eyes as he stood. Steve scrambled to his feet and grabbed Mike's elbow.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

Mike smiled at him warmly and nodded carefully. "Yeah, I just get a little dizzy when I get up. But it's getting better all the time, don't worry. There's still a lot of life in the old dog yet." He patted Steve's hand on his arm then moved towards the stairs. As he started slowly up, he ordered over his shoulder, "You get some sleep, you hear me. I want you coming home every night in one piece, you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Mike chuckled at the love and laughter so obvious in the two simple words as Steve watched him disappear up the stairs.


	28. Chapter 28

**Smile – Chapter 27**

The overhead light in the kitchen was the only illumination in the house; the sun had yet to come up. He turned the page of the newspaper in his hands, snapping it into place, and was blindly reaching for his coffee cup when a sharp metallic crack against the wooden table made him start, looking up quickly. In her dressing gown and pajamas, her hair sleep tousled and dark circles around her soft brown eyes, Irene was standing over him, a slight smile brightening her haunted features.

"I hear you're having automobile troubles," she said lightly, trying not to chuckle.

Steve's eyes slid from hers to her fingers wrapped around a set of keys on the table and back up. He put the paper down and nodded, his own smile slowly building.

With a soft laugh, she pulled out the nearest chair and sat. "Mike told me. He said you were a little, ah… _hesitant…?_ " she ventured.

"Terror stricken," he correctly quickly with a mirth-filled snort.

Nodding with a short laugh of her own, she continued carefully, "… about letting Jeannie drive your car?" He nodded vigorously, his eyebrows raised. "I understand completely," she dropped her voice conspiratorially, laying a gentle hand on his forearm. "My car should still be on the street in front of my house – you remember where that is?" He nodded again. "It's a '72 Caprice, burgundy. You shouldn't have any trouble finding it. Leave Mike's car here for Jeannie."

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Irene, you really don't have to –"

She squeezed his forearm. "Honey, it's the least I can do. I'm not using it, and you and Bob, you need it, don't you?" She stared into his eyes and any remaining vestige of humour disappeared; she lightly bit her lower lip.

Pursing his lips, his brows knit, he nodded slowly. He put his free hand over the one on his arm. "How are _you_ doing?" He smiled warmly and encouragingly.

Her eyes dropped to the table then rose unhurriedly to meet his, mirroring his smile. "I'm doing okay," she whispered, her stare sliding away again.

"It's good for Mike that you're here, but you know that, right?"

She nodded once more, her stare unfocussed. "I need him too," she breathed, and he barely heard her. She pulled her hand out from under his and stood up. He got to his feet as well and she looked at him gratefully. "Thank you," she said earnestly, staring into his eyes again.

"What for?" he asked softly with a slight, confused grin.

A wonderful light came back into her eyes and she smiled. "For loving Mike as much as you do. He adores you, you know… and he'd be lost without you." Her smile got wider as she stepped away, moving back towards the living room. Near the stairs, she stopped and turned back briefly. "Tell Bob I miss him, will you, Steve?"

Still speechless, almost unable to move, Steve followed her with his eyes. Numbly, he nodded, and she flashed a heartbreakingly appreciative smile as she nodded back and started up the stairs.

# # # # #

"We can swing by Irene's when we're done today, and you can take her car back to Mike's." Wilson was slumped in the front seat, dark glasses and a baseball cap masking his features as he stared at the front entrance of the restaurant a half block down on the far side. Traffic was heavy in the neighbourhood, and the inconspicuousness of Mike's dark blue sedan went a long way in helping them disappear in plain sight.

Even luckier, there was a mom-and-pop diner directly across the street; they had decided to have lunch there, in the window, which would give them an even better view of the Russian restaurant's comings and goings. Samovar didn't seem to be a popular place, but then again, it was only 11:24 in the morning. They hoped things would pick up the closer it got to noon.

They had decided against using the standard police tactic of flashing the photo of their suspect around the neighbourhood in the hopes that someone knew him or had seen him. Unfamiliar with the intricacies of Soviet society and its mores, they couldn't be sure just who they could talk to; and all it would take was one loose lip to drive the guilty further underground and out of their grasp forever.

Wilson looked across the front seat and chuckled. "Okay, I'll bite – just how many newspapers do you read in one day?"

His own eyes indiscernible behind his dark shades, Steve lowered the New York Times and smirked. "You sound like Mike. Just so happens I like to keep abreast of the news from all over – I just don't get the chance." He chuckled. "Sometimes I love stake-outs."

Wilson had looked back through the windshield. He straightened up suddenly, and Steve followed his gaze. "What?" the younger man said.

"End of the block, the two guys walking this way." He paused, letting Steve's eyes refocus. "What do you think?"

The Homicide inspector's gaze slid up to the photo on the visor, then back to the street. The two men in question, both muscular with shaven heads, continued towards them, approaching the restaurant. The detectives hearts started to pound; could they be so lucky so soon? It seemed too good to be true.

The pair reached the door of Samovar, and continued down the street without even a glance at the Russian restaurant. Steve and Wilson deflated slightly in the front seat of the blue sedan, averting their eyes as the 'suspects' walked past on the other side of the street. Steve returned to his newspaper but Wilson kept his eye on the two in the side mirror as they continued down the sidewalk.

When he chuckled to himself, Steve glanced up. "What?"

Still laughing quietly, Wilson slouched in the seat again. "It definitely couldn't have been those guys."

"Why?"

"One of them just put his hand in the other guy's back pocket," he chuckled, bobbing his eyebrows as he looked at the younger man.

Grinning, Steve lifted the Times and found his place on the op-ed page. It was going to be a long day.

# # # # #

His breath visible in the cool night air, Steve fumbled for his key as he reached the top step. Finding it, he was just about to insert it in the lock when Jeannie opened the door. Without a word, but with a definite snort that smacked of pique, she turned away and crossed back into the living room to drop heavily onto the couch.

Cautiously, not really sure what was going on, Steve stepped over the threshold and into the house, closing the door quietly behind him. Mike was sitting in the armchair, Irene on the other end of the couch, both staring at him: Irene with sympathy, Mike with barely suppressed amusement.

Clearing his throat, and trying to look serious, Mike spoke first. "So, ah, you finished a little earlier tonight. Have you eaten? There's some spaghetti sauce still on the stove if you…" The offer died on his tongue when Jeannie turned her scowl in his direction.

Glancing nervously from father to daughter, Steve tentatively shook his head. "No, ah, it's okay, ah, Bob and I grabbed a bite an hour or so ago. I'm good."

"There's fresh coffee on," Irene informed him and, for some reason the younger man couldn't fathom at the moment, was not the recipient of a Jean Stone glare.

His confusion deepening, Steve nodded. "Sounds good," he said guardedly as he turned towards the kitchen.

"I need to freshen my cup," Mike said suddenly, with more enthusiasm than the simple observation warranted, and he got up as quickly as he dared. Steadying himself against the armchair, he managed to move past Steve on the way to the kitchen. He raised a hand to cover his mouth as he walked by. "Dog house," he whispered sotto voce.

"What?" Steve asked, looking from Mike to the couch and then back to Mike as they entered the kitchen.

The older man crossed to the counter, opened a cupboard and took a mug out. Clearing his throat self-consciously, he glanced up as he poured the coffee into both cups. "Ah, Jeannie found out about, ah, about the Porsche…"

"What about the Porsche…?" Steve began, hands on his hips, then froze, his eyes narrowing. He took a deep, almost accusatory breath; Mike refused to meet his stare. "Gee, how did she find out about that, I wonder?"

Mike cleared his throat again, this time a little louder. "Well, ah, she could have overheard me talking to Irene about using _her_ car –"

"She _could have_ , could she?"

Mike turned his puppy dog eyes on his partner. "Honest, Steve, I never thought she'd put two and two together that fast… I mean, it would've made your head spin." He sounded almost proud.

"And, what, so you told her I didn't want her driving my car, is that it?"

"Actually," Mike took a deep breath, "I didn't have time to even get that out – she was all over it. I tried to explain to her that she didn't know how to drive a stickshift… but she wasn't paying much attention by then…." His voice trailed off and he shrugged.

Steve stared at him. Several silent seconds later, they both began to smile, then grin, then laugh. "Shhhh," Mike waved at him, leaning against the counter, his finger to his lips but unable to stop his own outbursts. Getting themselves under control, mugs in hand, ready to face the wrath of a wronged woman, they nodded in mutual agreement and turned to leave the kitchen.

Scowling, her hands on her hips, Jeannie Stone stood in doorway.

# # # # #

Smiling, Mike lay staring up at the darkened ceiling, Irene sleeping peacefully at his side. All in all, it had been a good day, topped off by the highly amusing episode of Steve having to explain to a very indignant Jeannie the rationale behind her use, or lack thereof, of his beloved Porsche. In the end, his level-headed daughter had to agree that learning to drive such a high-performance car on the hills of their revered city was a disaster waiting to happen.

It had been mutually agreed that when all this was over and life was, hopefully, back to normal, Steve would take her someplace less… challenging… and instruct her in the fine art of manual shift driving. Everyone went to bed happy, especially Steve.

Mike sighed, turning his head carefully to look at the woman beside him. Irene was on her side, her back to him, and he watched her chest rise and fall in deep, restful sleep. She seemed to do better today; she was more outgoing, almost her old self.

Turning carefully onto his side towards her, he reached out and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. She jumped under his touch, stiffening, and cried out. Instantly she began to thrash about, her arms flailing as she rolled onto her back and lashed out at him; terrified half-screams issued from her throat as she fought him off.

Caught off-guard, at first unable and then almost unwilling to restrain her, he strove to grab her arms. "Irene, Irene, Irene," he called her name over and over, at first in alarm and then, as difficult as it was, with increasing calm.

Her thrashing elbow caught him on the right side of the head, and a blinding light shot through his brain, stunning him. He lost his grip on her as he struggled not to lose consciousness. He reached out frantically, desperately trying to grab her wrists and get her under control.

Finally he got hold of her forearms and, with all the strength he had left, pulled her towards his chest and cradled her, wrapping her in a tight embrace, murmuring her name over and over in a soothing litany. After what seemed like an eternity, he could feel the tension slowly recede, her taut muscles begin to relax. She leaned against him, sobbing, clutching at his pajama top; he held her tightly, stroking her hair, repeating her name over and over.

Somewhere almost beyond the edges of his consciousness he heard the bedroom door open; he knew that Steve and Jeannie would be standing there, but he didn't care. He had everything under control.

Eventually he heard the door close; they were alone once again, in their pain and their sorrow. He continued to stroke her hair, to croon her name. It would be hours before they both fell asleep.


	29. Chapter 29

**Just a quick note to my very loyal and much appreciated readers: it seems this story has**

 **taken on a life of its own and is turning out to be much longer than I had anticipated.**

 **I hope everyone continues to come along for the ride, but if anyone wants to jump ship, I**

 **completely understand! What started out as a simple, I thought, story is now a novel;**

 **my sincerest apologies...but ah, the creative muse...**

 **Chapter 28**

Fully dressed, Steve was sitting on the couch in the dark, waiting and listening. He hadn't gotten much sleep; he wasn't sure anyone had.

Eventually he heard the master bedroom door open, and soft footfalls crossed the hall towards the bathroom. Irene, he knew. Getting up quickly, he took the stairs two at a time and slid into the room, pushing the door to but not closed behind him. The small bedside table lamp was on. Mike was lying on his left side, facing the far wall.

Steve crossed around the bed; the older man's eyes were closed. He put a hand on Mike's shoulder and, when there was no reaction, shook him gently. The blue eyes opened slowly; Steve was fairly certain he could see pain in the lines of his face. Alarmed, his fingers tightened comfortingly. "Are you okay?" he whispered.

Mike blinked slowly then shook his head sluggishly. "My head hurts," he said thickly, and Steve's heart began to pound. Almost instinctively, his hand went from his partner's shoulder to the top of his head. He knew the incident with Irene during the night had been a violent one; though Mike had her under control when he had opened the door, both he and Jeannie could tell it had been a struggle for the injured man. Steve's eventual sleeplessness, and Jeannie's as well he assumed, was rooted in that worry.

"Roll onto your back," he instructed softly and, closing his eyes once more, trying not to grimace, Mike complied. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Steve asked carefully, "Do you want me to call the doctor?"

Mike's eyes shot open. "No," came out in a rush, followed rapidly by a wince and a gasp. Steve's hand went from the top of Mike's head to his chest. When the older man relaxed and opened his eyes again, he increased the pressure.

"You're sure?"

Trying to smile reassuringly, Mike managed a low chuckle. "Yes, I'm sure. I think I just need to lie here today that's all."

Steve stared at him skeptically but Mike didn't back down. They both heard the bathroom door open. Mike's eyes snapped quickly in that direction then back. "Don't tell her, please," he pleaded, and Steve could see real guilt and concern in his eyes.

Swallowing hard and sighing heavily, the younger man nodded reluctantly, lifting his hand. They heard the door pushed open and Irene's brief intake of breath at seeing Steve in the room. He looked up, smiling. "Good morning," he said brightly, watching the confusion and tension in her eyes ameliorate somewhat.

"Good morning," she echoed, her concerned stare shifting to Mike. He had pushed himself up slightly onto his elbows and was looking at her with wide, smiling eyes. "Are you okay?"

He grinned. "I'm fine. Just a little tired this morning… guess I've been doing too much the past couple of days."

Steve glanced at his partner, successfully masking his worry. "Yeah, I told him he should spend the day in bed… and guess what? He agreed." He laughed as he turned back to Irene; he felt Mike's hand on his forearm and a grateful squeeze.

Irene stood over the bed and as Steve rose she took his place, one hand lovingly against the side of Mike's face. "You sure you're okay?" she asked softly and he nodded, smiling warmly.

"You?" In their looks, Steve could tell she knew exactly what Mike had asked, and he held his breath.

Irene hesitated, then a gentle smile lit her features and she nodded, briefly closing her eyes. He reached up and put his hand on her cheek. As he lay back down, she leaned over him and they kissed.

Very quietly Steve backed towards the door, closing it softly behind him.

# # # # #

He was standing on the stoop, she on the threshold.

"So if anything comes up, and I mean _anything…_ call Norm. I'll let him know where I am and how he can get in touch with me."

Jeannie nodded. "I'll bring their breakfast up and see what's going on. You're sure she hit him last night?" The worry in her voice wasn't hard to discern.

Steve nodded. "Not intentionally, of course, but she was pretty out of control there for a bit." He had gotten to the bedroom door just before Jeannie and had seen the end of the struggle; he knew how much effort it had taken Mike to gain the upper hand and get Irene under control.

Jeannie smiled as best she could. "Don't worry. You do what you have to today, and I'll hold down the fort here. I'll keep a close eye on both of them and don't worry, if I think Mike needs to see a doctor, I won't take any grief from him, believe me."

Steve grinned. "I don't doubt that for an instant. Good luck," he chuckled as he turned to head down the stairs.

"Same to you," she called after him as she started to close the heavy front door.

"Oh!" his voice stopped her and she stuck her head back out, "Mike's car is just down the block there…" he laughed, pointing down the street.

She blew him a raspberry as she shut the door and he laughed all the way to Irene's car.

# # # # #

They were parked outside Katya's Russian Deli. A heavy coastal fog was beginning to roll in and they didn't know how much longer they could maintain their vigil. They knew it would only be a matter of minutes before their view of the small diner was totally obscured by the thick, damp mist.

"Well, isn't this great," Wilson moaned in exasperation, briefly turning on the wipers to clear the windshield. He glanced across the front seat in time to see Steve stifle another yawn. "What's with you this morning? Didn't you get any sleep last night?"

Hesitant about telling Wilson too much, knowing that the Robbery sergeant was still coming to terms with what had happened to his partner, Steve glanced away, then took a deep breath. "Irene had a… an episode last night. She had a… a flashback, I guess you could call it. I guess she thought Mike was her attacker and she went after him in her sleep."

Wilson had sat up straighter and was looking at Steve anxiously. "Are they okay?"

Steve bobbed his head with a facial shrug. "I think she's okay but she accidentally whacked him on the head pretty hard and he's not feeling too good this morning."

"Is he going to see the doctor?"

"He doesn't think he has to," Steve explained, trying to hide his annoyance with his shaking head. "I just think he doesn't want to scare Irene. But Jeannie is making sure he stays in bed all day and we'll see how he's feeling tonight."

"Damn it," Wilson breathed, settling back on the seat, "and I thought they were doing pretty good, from what you've been saying."

"I thought so too, but I guess she's going to have flashbacks and anxiety attacks for some time. God, I hate to think what she's going through."

"Yeah, and it can't be a piece of cake for Mike either." Both men fell silent, knowing there was nothing either of them could actually do for their partners, except catch those responsible for all the pain and heartache.

"Listen, ah, this is going to be a bust in a few minutes when we can't even see the front of the car. What say we head over to your place and make some of those phone calls we've been meaning to make?" Wilson proposed and Steve nodded.

He knew they both needed to keep busy.

# # # # #

" _San Quentin Federal Prison. How may I direct your call?"_

"Yes, ah, this is Inspector Keller with the San Francisco Police Department. May I speak to Lieutenant Richard Allen, please?

" _One moment, sir, and I'll connect you."_

Steve put his hand over the mouthpiece. "I think he's in; they're connecting me."

"Good." Wilson was coming in from the kitchen with two cups of coffee; he put one down on the coffee table in front of the younger man.

"Thanks." Steve took his hand off the mouthpiece and picked up the pen that was sitting on the yellow legal pad. "Here's hoping he can help us."

" _Lieutenant Allen."_

"Ah, yes, Lieutenant, this is Inspector Steve Keller of the SF –"

" _I remember you,"_ the deep, friendly voice chuckled in recognition. _"You're Mike Stone's partner, aren't you?"_

Laughing, Steve replied, "Yes, sir. Good memory."

" _You still with Mike? Don't tell me he finally retired?"_

"No, sir, but he is off on sick leave right now."

" _That's too bad. You give him my best, you hear. So, what can I do for you, young fella?"_

"I will, thank you. Well, sir, I want to pick your brain for some information on Russian criminal or prison tattoos."

" _Russian prison tattoos?"_

"Yes, sir."

" _Well, first off – stop calling me 'sir'. It's Dick, okay?"_ The hearty laugh on the other end of the line was disarming. _"And what is it, precisely, that you want to know?"_

"Well, we're after someone who might have ties to the Russian mobs from back east. We don't know who it is yet, or even how he might be linked to the mobs, but we did find out that he had a bunch of tattoos on his chest and back."

" _What kind of tattoos? Religious? Political? Death symbols?"_

"Our intelligence has been very spotty in that regard, so far, but we do know of one tattoo he has. It's of an eagle carrying a nude woman in its talons. Do you know what that means?"

There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line. Steve heard Allen take a deep breath.

" _An eagle carrying a nude woman?"_ the corrections officer asked, as if parsing each word separately.

"Yes, sir." Steve's titular slip went unnoticed by both parties. He heard Allen take another deep breath, letting in out in a very audible rush.

" _Well, son, that's usually the symbol for a rapist – a very violent rapist."_

# # # # #

Irene lay down beside him on the bed. He had been sleeping most of the day, and she was worried. She was well aware of what she had done during the night, that she had been out of control. She didn't remember hitting him but she couldn't rule it out; most of what happened had become a blur of terror and anger.

He was on his back, his head turned to the left. The thick gauze bandage still caused her heart to skip a beat every time her eyes fell on it; she couldn't get used to it, and never would, she knew. It was a continual reminder of how close she had come to losing him forever.

She lay on her side, gently resting her arm across his chest. He didn't move. Tears started to form in her eyes, eventually overflowing and sliding soundlessly down her cheek to soak into the sheet beneath them.

Since Mike had downed only a half slice of cold toast and a few small sips of coffee for breakfast, Jeannie had been hovering close by all day, valiantly trying to mask her growing fear. And now, without looking, Irene knew that Mike's daughter was standing in the open doorway, watching them, anxiously hoping that her father would open his eyes and look at her.

# # # # #

"Look, ah, I want to get back to Mike's, you know…" Steve took a deep breath as he got to his feet.

"No, I hear ya," Wilson said as he rose too, stretching and rubbing a hand over his eyes. "We did enough for today. We both need a good night's sleep, I think."

"Yeah." Steve had picked up the two coffee mugs and brought them into the kitchen, pouring the dregs into the sink. "Listen," called over his shoulder, "why don't you come to the house with me. I think Irene would like to see you, especially after last night." He had passed on what Irene had told him, that she missed her partner.

He walked back into the living room to find Wilson looking down, shaking his head. "Not yet, Steve. I'm not ready for that yet…" He took a deep breath, letting it out in an unhappy sigh. "I just… I just can't, you know… not till we catch this bastard." He looked up and met Steve's stare; the fire in the older man's eyes was unmistakable.

Very slowly, Steve nodded. He understood completely.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 29**

The sun was still up but struggling to penetrate the thick fog that threatened to last until morning as Steve drove slowly home. Headlights were impossible to see until you were almost on top of the other car; his already frayed nerves were almost completely shot by the time he parked Irene's Caprice and mounted the concrete steps to the Stone front door.

An anxious looking Jeannie opened the door before he got his key in the lock. He froze for a split second before asking, "How is he?"

As he crossed the threshold and she closed the door, she whispered, with a quick glance up the stairs, "He's been asleep all day. He had a bit of toast and coffee for breakfast, but he's literally been asleep ever since. Irene's beside herself… Steve, I'm worried. What if she really hurt him?"

Shedding his beige topcoat and tossing it over the arm of the couch, he smiled encouragingly as he moved towards the stairs. "Have you tried to wake him?"

She had started to follow him but hesitated and he stopped, turning to her. "Well no, I thought it best just to let him sleep, if that's all he's doing. But really, Steve, I've been scared. What if he doesn't wake up?"

His smile got a little wider. "Let's go up and have a look and if we need to call the doctor, we'll call him, okay?" His calm and assertive tone was just the balm she needed and she nodded gratefully. "Come on," he said with a nod and she followed him up the stairs.

Irene was lying beside Mike on the bed, holding his hand in both of hers and staring at his almost serene face. She glanced towards the door as the younger couple entered, her eyes widening when she saw Steve. He smiled optimistically at her as he crossed to the bed; she sat up, continuing to hold Mike's hand, her eyes sliding back to him.

Steve circled the bed and sat on the edge. Mike looked like he was in a deep but uneventful sleep, his chest rising and falling with a comforting rhythm. Steve leaned closer and laid a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Mike."

When there was no response, Irene's head came up quickly and she stared at the younger man. He could hear her frightened, shallow breaths. "Oh god, Steve," she gasped in fear, "I think I really hurt him." New lines of worry were etched into her already ravaged face and his heart broke for her even more.

"Mike," Steve urged a bit louder, shaking his best friend's shoulder harder, a little more desperately.

The older man stirred, moving his head slightly and grimacing, his free hand twitching, his legs shifting slightly under the blanket. Three pairs of anxious eyes stared at him as he groaned and the blue eyes opened slowly, blinking and squinting in the harsh glare from the ceiling light. He looked slowly from Steve to Irene. "What's everybody staring at?" he asked hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper.

With a relieved chuckle, Steve straightened up, patting Mike's shoulder as he looked up towards Jeannie, who was hovering on the other side of the bed near Irene. "I, ah, I hear you slept all day. You had everybody worried."

Continuing to look confused, Mike's eyes traveled from his partner to Irene to his daughter. "I did? Geez, I guess I needed it then… Why do you all look so grim?"

Steve snapped his jaw shut with a snort, standing up. "Ah, no reason. How do you feel?"

Irene, who hadn't taken her eyes from Mike's face but was now looking at him with barely suppressed elation, had pulled his hand to her chest. He looked at her, his smile building, then glanced back at Steve before answering. "I have a bit of a headache, but I feel fine. Hungry, actually."

"Well, I can do something about that," Jeannie announced happily. "I made a stew. Does everyone want some?"

Irene turned to her with a warm smile. "As long as we can have it up here… I don't want your father getting out of bed." She turned to Mike, tightening her grip on his hand. "Right?"

He grinned at her and nodded carefully. "Right," he said, staring into her eyes.

"Ah, before we all eat, indulge me," Steve said, his stare returning to the older man and his smile disappearing as he sat on the bed once more. "What's your full name?"

Hesitating for a second, his own smile disappearing, Mike's eyes narrowed. Irene gasped, her gaze shifting quickly from one partner to the other. Jeannie's involuntary chuckle stopped halfway out of her throat. Both women knew instantly that Steve wasn't joking, as did Mike.

Staring at his young partner, realizing that their fear for his safety had been serious, Mike said softly, "Michael George Stone."

"What day is it?"

Mike snorted softly and shook his head slightly. "I have no idea, but I do know it's December."

A brief smiled played over Steve's lips. "Okay, one more – who's the President?"

Mike smiled back. "Nixon…" he said with conviction, and all their faces fell. Irene looked quickly at Steve, her brow furrowing and Jeannie gasped. Mike's grin wavered, "… should still be President if he hadn't been forced to resign for being such a jerk, so Gerald Ford's the President now."

There was a brief moment of frozen silence before everyone burst out laughing as Mike grinned at them with twinkling eyes. "Gotcha!" he cackled.

With a quick glance at Jeannie and shaking his head in relieved resignation, Steve got to his feet. "Jeannie, I'll give you a hand with dinner. We'll leave the joker here with you, Irene – good luck!" he laughed as he circled the bed and they crossed the room. When he turned back to close the door, Mike and Irene were still looking at each other, smiling.

When she heard the door close, Irene raised Mike's hand to her lips and kissed it. "I'm so sorry –" she began apologetically but he raised his other hand and put his fingers over her mouth. He shook his head. Then he pulled her down beside him, wrapping both arms around her as she nestled in, her hand on his chest, and closed her eyes.

# # # # #

"So he's all right?" Wilson asked from the passenger seat of Irene's Caprice. They were outside The Russian Tea Room in Sausalito. Richard Allen told them he had heard a couple of Russian inmates talking about the place once; he thought maybe the SFPD detectives should check it out. So far, it was a bust, but at least they had a nice view of the marina.

"Yeah, turned out he just needed the sleep, but he sure scared the hell out of everybody, me included." Steve shook his head with an exasperated chuckle.

"And, ah, Irene… she's okay too?" Wilson's attempt to be casual failed miserably but Steve let it pass.

"Yeah, she's fine, now that she knows he is. Well, I mean, you know, not _fine_ but you know what I mean."

"Yeah." There was a tragic wistfulness in the older man's tone that Steve had a hard time ignoring.

"They're both doing as well as could be expected, I guess. Which, right now, is a good deal better than what we're doing. God, at this rate, we're not gonna to catch these guys before they strike again and I don't know about you, but I don't want that on my conscience."

Wilson exhaled loudly. "Neither do I. Look, why don't we just hang here till after the lunch rush and then hightail it back into The City. There's something about Samovar that's been bugging me. I know it's the first place we looked at, but something in my gut is telling me that's the spot – that's where we're gonna see him. What do you say?"

"I say never go against anyone's gut. Let's do it."

# # # # #

"Listen, ah, I just have a couple of minutes – I have to get back to the car. How's it going today?"

" _You're not going to believe this – not only did Mike eat his entire breakfast and lunch, but he's still lying in bed and Irene is reading to him."_

"What?"

" _Yep, he's lying there propped up by all those pillows, and she's lying beside him and reading him 'The Seven-Percent Solution.'"_

"The what?"

" _It's that new murder mystery about Sherlock Holmes…? You haven't heard about it? It was on the New York Times Bestsellers List… It would have been in their Review of Books, wouldn't it?… Gee, I thought you read that religiously…"_ The giggles could be heard through the connection.

"Sometimes you sound so much like your father it's truly frightening. Tell them to have a great time and I'll see you all later tonight, smartass."

" _I'll keep the home –"_ The rest of her sentence disappeared as he hung up, laughing.

# # # # #

She looked up from the words on the page. His head was still turned in her direction but his eyes were half-closed and his smile was only a shadow of what it had been. Quietly, she closed the book and set it on the bed beside her; she turned towards him, laid her arm across his chest and settled her head against his shoulder.

With a soft, contented moan, he leaned his head against hers, his arm pulling her against his chest. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Kissing the top of her head, he whispered, "You would've made a terrific mom."

She gasped, and he felt her hands grab at his top as her body began to shake. He tightened his grip, knowing the she had to let it out, hoping that he hadn't pushed her too far too soon.

As her sobs filled the room, he clung to her as much as she to him. He didn't know how long she cried but eventually the tears stopped falling and her breaths lengthened and the tension left her slight body. He smiled and, with one last stroke of her hair, laid his cheek against her head and sighed. He felt he could lie with her like this forever.

# # # # #

"Bob!"

Steve's low but urgent voice brought him to fill wakefulness in a split second; his head snapped up and his eyes quickly focused through the windshield at the sidewalk in front of the Samovar restaurant.

"What do you think?" the Homicide detective asked, staring fixedly at two figures walking along the sidewalk towards the Russian diner.

Wilson's eyes snapped quickly to the photo on the visor and back down again. "I think you might be right. The other dude… what do you think? His partner?"

Steve shrugged slightly. "Could be. Wish we had some kind of description on him…"

The man in question, roughly the same height and weight of their suspect, was wearing a black pea coat and knit cap. He stopped outside the restaurant, glancing up and down the street before opening the door, allowing his companion to enter first before disappearing inside.

Wilson looked across the front seat. "Well, the build's pretty much the same. It's hard to tell from here but that hooked nose looked like the one in the picture. What do you think?"

Steve looked at him and frowned. "I think we need to get a closer look."

With a curt nod, Wilson reached for the door handle. "That's what I think too. Be right back!" he said quickly as opened the door and got out of the car. Before Steve could say anything, he had slammed the door and, shoving his hands in the pockets of his dark blue windbreaker, started across the street.

"Bob!" Steve hissed in anger as he watched him go, slumping back in the seat in frustration. He couldn't go after him, it was too dangerous; they would definitely be spotted for cops. As he watched in exasperation, Wilson stepped up onto the far sidewalk and approached Samovar. With a quick look over his shoulder in the general direction of their car, Wilson opened the restaurant door and disappeared inside.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 30**

The small bell jingled, announcing Bob Wilson's entrance into the small restaurant. His eyes quickly scanned the dark wood-paneled room with its heavy red curtains, looking very much like a first time visitor to the establishment, which is precisely what he was. He stood at the entrance for a few seconds, deeply inhaling the rich, inviting aromas then, rubbing his hands in anticipation and smiling broadly, crossed to the counter.

A large florid-faced, middle-aged woman, wearing a bright _babushka_ scarf and a _khokhloma_ apron, grinned warmly at his approach. "Yes, sir, what can I do for you today?" she asked in a pleasant, welcoming, slightly accented singsong voice.

"Good afternoon," Wilson responded with a gentle chuckle, putting both hands on the counter. "Well, this is my first time here and, I have to tell you, I'm not all that familiar with Russian food and I think I need some advice." He laughed self-deprecatingly and she chuckled along with him, beaming. "A colleague and I are working nearby and someone recommended your place to us and guess what? I'm the one who has to decide what we're gonna eat for lunch today. So, we're two healthy American men, who have pretty good appetites – what would you recommend?"

The woman picked up a large laminated one-sheet menu and placed it on the counter so Wilson could read it. There were colour photos alongside the names and descriptions of the different dishes, the black printing in English and Cyrillic.

"Your first time I would recommend an appetizer and maybe a meat dish?" she suggested, pointing at two different photos on the plastic-covered menu.

Wilson read the descriptions quickly and nodded. "Sounds good to me," he agreed with a chuckle and a shrug, hoping at least one of the dishes was not pre-cooked and ready to go, which would allow him time to loiter without attracting unwanted attention.

With a wide grin and a nod, the woman turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Rubbing his hands together again, Wilson turned away from the counter and glanced around the restaurant, ostensibly looking at the vivid paintings on the walls and the colourful décor. It also allowed him to take furtive glances at the booth near the back wall, where the two men who had entered the restaurant mere minutes before were now ensconced. The older woman re-entered with a tray and crossed to the booth, placing cups, saucers, spoons and pots of the strong Turkish coffee on the table. Neither man made eye contact with her or even acknowledged her presence, Wilson noticed.

His eyes travelled the room. Gratefully, he noticed that a few of the paintings had small brass plates beside them. He slowly made his way along the far wall, pretending to read the plaques and study the paintings; all the while he was peripherally watching the two men in the booth.

He had managed to work his way quite close to the booth when he heard, "Sir, your lunch is ready!" He straightened up, glancing back at the counter where the woman stood with a large paper bag in her hand. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked as he crossed towards her, pulling out his wallet and smiling.

"Ah, no thanks," he said amiably, "this'll be fine. How much do I owe you?"

He paid and put his wallet back in his pocket. Picking up the paper bag and thanking the older woman, he took one more quick glance at the booth as he turned towards to door to leave. As far as he could tell, neither man had looked in his direction since they had taken him in on his initial entrance. With a final thank you, Wilson crossed to the front door and left.

# # # # #

He hadn't taken his eyes off the understated entrance to Samovar since Wilson had disappeared inside. His heart continued to pound as the minutes dragged on. Suddenly the door opened and Wilson re-emerged, a large paper bag in his hand. He glanced vaguely in the direction of the sedan, then turned and started down the street in the opposite direction.

Steve let him get to the corner and watched as Wilson turned and was lost from sight. He started the car and pulled away from the curb; he drove slowly down the street and around the corner in the direction Wilson had gone. The Robbery sergeant was leaning against a building halfway down the block. As Steve slid the Caprice to a stop, he crossed to the curb, circled the car and got in.

Putting the bag on the seat between them, Wilson met the younger man's inquisitive stare. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. "It's him, I'd make book on it."

Steve's released a deep breath and shook his head. "Damn." He chuckled once dryly, glancing away and nodding. "Good, good," he mumbled, absently tapping the steering wheel. He met Wilson's eyes again. "So, how do _you_ think we should play this?"

Wilson tilted his head. "Well, we still haven't got anything on him in terms of the rapes, right? So, I think we've gotta somehow catch 'em in the act, don't you?"

Steve nodded reluctantly, knowing how difficult that was going to be, especially as there were only the two of them.

"I mean, they've left us no clues so far, right? So I don't think they're gonna have anything on them that'll point a finger at them specifically – I mean, we both know, because of what happened to Irene, that they seem to bring only enough tape with them for one job at a time. So these guys aren't stupid."

"Yeah, but it's still just you and me, right? I've been thinking… there were a couple of empty parking spaces on the street back there, but these guys walked here. So, what? Both of them or one of them lives nearby?"

Wilson pursed his lips and nodded, frowning. "Good point. So, obviously we need to follow them." He looked up and smiled. "Well, it can't be me – they've just seen me in there, so it's gotta be you, man," he chuckled.

"Great," Steve said sarcastically as he reached for the door handle.

"Wait, wait, wait," Wilson hissed quickly. "We've got some time. They looked like they were settling in for lunch." He picked up the paper bag and raised his eyebrows. "This wasn't cheap, my friend, and I intend to eat it. You ever had Russian food?"

With a laugh and a smile, Steve took his hand off the door handle and shook his head. "No, I haven't. And you'd think I would've – I know my Dad's grandmother was Russian but it was never a big thing in my family."

"Humh," Wilson snorted, sounding impressed. "Say, ah, before we dig in, and to make you feel a little easier, why don't you swing back to Cabrillo and park further down the block and we can keep an eye on Samovar while we eat?"

Steve smiled as he pulled the Caprice away from the curb.

# # # # #

It was just before two when Samovar's door opened and their two suspects stepped into the chilly afternoon sunshine, starting down the street in the same direction in which they'd arrived. The restaurant had served a steady stream of lunch goers; it was obviously a popular local eatery, but these two had clearly felt no rush and had lingered over their repast.

The two detectives sat up straighter; Wilson looked across the front seat. They had already taken the time to change seats; if Steve was the one to do the on-foot tailing, then Wilson would have to drive. They glanced at each other then Steve took one of Mike's old 49ers caps out of his windbreaker pocket and put it on. "Don't forget, if they split up, I'll follow Vlad and you stay with Igor."

Over their surprisingly delicious lunch of dolmasy and basturma, they had decided they couldn't keep referring to the 'suspects', so had decided to name their chief quarry 'Vlad', after the Romanian who became the inspiration for Dracula, and his accomplice 'Igor', for obvious reasons.

Wilson nodded as Steve got out of the car and started down the street, thrusting his hands into his pockets and keeping his head down. Vlad and Igor turned a corner, deep in conversation it seemed, and started north on 8th Avenue. Reaching the corner, Steve crossed the street, lagging behind a full block and staying on the other side of the road.

Neither man seemed to be paying much attention to their surroundings and it was easy for Steve to keep them in sight. They turned left onto Balboa at a quick, steady pace; Steve hung back slightly then made the turn a block and a half behind them. He knew Wilson would be even further behind, making sure the Caprice was not seen.

Suddenly Vlad stopped and Steve almost skidded to a halt. He dropped quickly to one knee and pretended to tie the laces on his sneakers. He glanced furtively down the street as he scrambled behind a parked car and raised himself just enough to see over the hood. Vlad was lighting a cigarette; neither one of them was looking around. Their over-confidence was downright galling, Steve thought.

His cigarette successfully lit, Vlad and Igor continued down Balboa. Steve continued to follow discreetly, but not once did either look over a shoulder. Turning right onto 17th, with the pedestrian traffic getting thicker, the pair eventually made their way across Geary and Clement, then stopped outside a small apartment building.

Steve pulled the ball cap lower and turned his back to them, facing the large window of a real estate office, pretending to look at the listings posted on the inside of the glass. Peripherally he could see his targets finish their conversation, then Igor turned and entered the building while Vlad stepped out onto the street, looking up and down the avenue impatiently. A blue De Soto cab turned onto 17th from California and Vlad flagged it down. It squealed to a stop and the Russian quickly got into the back seat.

Steve watched the reflection of the taxi in the window as it drove past him towards Geary. As it turned left towards downtown, he ran between cars into the street, looking frantically up and down for another cab but there was none in sight. "Shit," he whispered loudly to himself in frustration.

As he headed down the sidewalk towards Geary at a trot, the burgundy Caprice swung onto 17th and started towards him. Wilson slammed to a stop opposite him and Steve circled the car quickly, jumping into the front seat. "What happened?" Wilson asked as Steve slammed the door and he hit the accelerator, an impatient motorist behind him giving him a blast from his horn.

"I lost him! Vlad! He took off in a cab! I didn't even have time to get the medallion number, damn it!" Steve's anger was directed at himself and Wilson knew it.

"Okay, okay, we're still ahead of the game; we can give De Soto a call and get the drop-off from them, so we're good. Now where did Igor go?"

"In there," Steve pointed to his right as the Caprice drove past the grey stucco apartment. "I didn't get the number of the building and I don't want to take the chance now of going closer in case Igor's watching for some reason." He paused and Wilson could feel the frustration emanating from the passenger side of the front seat.

The Robbery sergeant turned onto California and pulled into a vacant parking space. He turned the car off and looked across the front seat. "Give me your jacket."

Steve looked at him, brows knit. "What?"

"Give me your jacket," Wilson repeated as his took his own off and tossed it into the back seat, along with his baseball cap. Frowning, Steve removed his windbreaker and handed it over. "I have an idea," Wilson continued, taking the jacket and awkwardly slipping it on; there wasn't much room behind the wheel. "Irene keeps a Polaroid in the trunk. I'll take a stroll down 17th and take a shot of the building – don't worry, I'll be discreet – and we can get the address and then get one of the guys back at the Hall to get us a list of the occupants. Maybe if we're lucky there'll be a Russian name on that list."

With a snort and a shrug, still mad at himself for losing Vlad, Steve nodded as Wilson got out of the car and opened the trunk. He took a deep breath; he knew he had to keep a lid on his emotions. It was too early in the game to start losing patience; they still had a hell of a lot of work to do. But it was definitely a step in the right direction; for the first time since the attack, he felt like they were making actual progress.

And more than ever, he wished he could talk to Mike. He knew he couldn't; but he could take solace in the fact that now he knew who they were… the monster who had raped Wilson's partner and the one who had almost taken his best friend's life.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 31**

Steve re-entered his living room with two cups of fresh coffee in hand, placing one on the table in front of Wilson, the other on the end closest to the armchair. The Robbery sergeant was leaning over the table, rifling through files, making notations on a yellow legal pad. "Thanks," he mumbled without looking up.

"I ordered the pizza," Steve said as he sat, sliding his own mug over to pull another file closer to his end of the table.

"Good," came the perfunctory reply. Wilson flipped a page in the file in his hand, nodded to himself and made another note. "Okay, just have two more reports to check…"

The phone rang and Steve reached across the coffee table to pick up the beige rotary phone and bring it closer, pulling the cord with him. He balanced it on his knee as he picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

" _Yeah, Steve, it's Norm."_

"Hey, Norm, what have you got?"

" _Yeah, okay, I got a hold of De Soto. The driver's name is Manuel Delgado and he's still on the road right now but he'll be back at the garage on Selby at 8 so you guys should be there then."_

"Okay, great, thanks. That's a big help." Steve picked up another pad and made a note.

" _And, ah, I got ahold of someone down at the Hall of Records about that apartment building but you're gonna have to go down there yourself and do the dirty work. They weren't too excited about, well, first - doing it at all, and then - doing it for us. Seems they're, ah,_ overworked… _"_ His derision was easily discernible over the phone. _"Yeah, tell me about it – so you're gonna have to do that on your own. Sorry about that."_

Chuckling, Steve reassured the harassed homicide sergeant, "Don't worry about it, Norm. Thanks for trying. I kinda figured that would be their reaction. Wish we had Mike here to schmooze them – he's really good at that."

Wilson glanced up and smiled.

" _So, ah, how are things going at your end? How're Mike and Irene doin'?"_

"Well, they're coming along. Mike got the stitches out a few days ago and he's doing good. It just gonna take time for both of them, you know?"

" _Yeah, ah, well, ah, well, tell 'em both that we're thinking of them, okay? And everybody wants them back at work as soon as they can… okay?"_

Steve smiled warmly and lightly cleared his throat. "I will, Norm," he said quietly, "I will. Thanks again and, ah, I'll see you soon."

" _Yeah, ah, see ya."_

Steve hung up, looking at Wilson as he put the phone on the floor beside him. "So, we have a name for the cabbie – we have to be at the Selby garage to see him tonight at 8. And guess what?"

Wilson laughed, continuing to make notes on his pad. "We have to go down to Records ourselves, right?" Steve nodded with raised eyebrows. "Yeah, I figured. I have never had much… ah, how shall I put it?… co-operation from them over the years. God, you'd think, one civil servant to another…" His good-natured grumbling petered out as his full attention went back to the notations he had made on the pad.

"So, want to hear our plan for tonight?" he announced, looking up and meeting the younger man's stare with a smile. When Steve nodded, he continued, "Well, all the, ah, the girls were attacked sometime between 11:30 and 12:30 – every one of them. These guys are nothing if not consistent. So, because as of right now we only know where Igor lives, unless we get really lucky with the cabbie, I suggest we head back to 17th, with two cars this time, and stake out Igor's place. Agree?"

Steve nodded.

Wilson continued. "Good. So, by my calculations, we gotta get to 17th at least an hour earlier, if not sooner, so if we're gonna go interview that cabbie, we should probably go straight from the garage to 17th and hunker down."

"Sounds good. If they're going hunting tonight, they've gotta leave at the very latest by 10:30 I would think… but all this is presupposing that at least Igor is still at home by the time we get back there."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed in frustration. It was a monumental task in front of them; they desperately needed more manpower but, until they could come up with some solid proof to take to Olsen, they knew they were on their own.

# # # # #

"Manuel Delgado?" Steve asked pleasantly, holding up his star and I.D. as he and Wilson crossed the garage floor towards the middle-aged Hispanic man getting out of the blue cab. "I'm Inspector Keller, this is Sergeant Wilson."

The short, stocky, grey-haired man turned quickly, his eyes widening when he saw the two men and the badge. He ducked his head, frowning worriedly. "Yes, sir," he almost stammered and both detectives smiled disarmingly.

"You're not in trouble, Mr. Delgado," Wilson assured the older man with a gentle chuckle. "We just need some information."

The cabbie visibly relaxed. "Oh, uh, of course, of course. What do you need to know?"

Steve pocketed his badge. "Earlier this afternoon, just after two, you picked up a man on 17th – a stocky guy wearing a black pea coat and a black cap?"

Delgado frowned momentarily then brightened. "Ah, si, si – ah, yes, I remember. He wanted to go downtown."

The detectives exchanged a glance. "Where did you drop him off?" Wilson asked.

The cabbie raised a finger in a 'one moment' gesture and leaned back into the front seat of the taxi, picking up a clipboard. Straightening up, he flipped to the second page and ran his finger down the list. "Yes, yes, I dropped him off at the corner of Post and Stockton."

Steve looked at Wilson and sighed; the Robbery sergeant shook his head with a wry smile. "Union Square… great…"

"You… didn't see which direction he walked off in…?" Steve suggested hopefully and Delgado just shook his head.

"Sorry… as soon as he got out, a woman got right in and I drove off… sorry…"

Wilson chuckled. "You don't have anything to be sorry about, it's okay." He sighed. "Just one more thing, this guy you picked up…? Did he talk to you at all or was he one of those silent guys?"

"He just told me where he wanted to go."

"Okay, so when he did that, do you remember him having an accent of any kind?"

Delgado thought about that for several seconds, frowning once again, then he smiled. "Ah, si, yes… he didn't sound American, if you know what I mean...?" He was bobbing his head enthusiastically, pleased he could finally help the two detectives; they smiled back at him. "He sounded, um, I'm not sure but maybe… German?" he suggested tentatively.

Wilson glanced at Steve. "Could he have been Russian, do you think?" he asked, trying not to sound too suggestive, or too hopeful.

Delgado frowned again then started nodding slowly. "Si, si… you could be right, he could have been Russian… yes…"

Steve held his right hand out. "Thank you very much, Mr. Delgado," he said, shaking the older man's hand, "you've been a big help."

The cab driver beamed as they walked away.

# # # # #

The night was cold and oppressively dark; it was only 9:45, and it was going to get a lot colder the later it got. Steve was slumped down in the driver's seat of Mike's car, the 'Niners baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. A heavy navy blue blanket was draped over him. The sedan was parked on the west side of 17th between Lake and California, facing towards Igor's apartment building. He knew Wilson, in the Caprice, was further down the block between Anza and Geary; they had decided to use Irene's tonight car because it would be unrecognizable in the dark but Wilson's car tomorrow in case the Caprice was spotted again.

After leaving the De Soto garage, they had stopped by the Hall of Justice; Haseejian had provided them with a set of walkie-talkies and two pairs of powerful Bushnell binoculars. Steve reached for the handset on the seat beside him and thumbed the Talk button. "Are you still awake?"

When the other walkie-talkie crunched to life, he heard Wilson chuckle. "I was just about to ask you the same thing… So, what, we give ourselves till midnight…?"

"Sounds about right. I'm glad you remembered about those thermoses – under these conditions I don't care if I'm drinking tar as long as it's hot!"

Wilson laughed. "I hear ya. Keep those eyes peeled."

"You too." Steve put the handset down and picked up the binoculars. It was going to be a long night.

# # # # #

Incredibly there was parking space just down the block from the house and Steve pulled the sedan in gratefully. He had kept the heat on full all the way home but he was still cold as he got out and locked the car.

The steep steps to the front door seemed harder to climb than usual, but he knew it was because of his growing fatigue. It had been an incredibly long day and both he and Wilson had decided, even though they had another busy day on the horizon, what with a trip to the Hall of Records on their agenda, that they wouldn't meet up again until at least noon so they could get some much needed rest. They knew that exhaustion was a complication they couldn't afford at the moment.

The house was pitch dark; he knew no one would be up. He had toyed with the idea of sleeping at his own apartment, but a part of him didn't want to be separated from Mike for even one night just now. It was an irrational feeling, he knew; Mike was in more than capable hands with both his daughter and Irene taking care of him. But there was something about this situation that had shaken him to his very core, and the solace and support that he experienced in this little family group was something that he could find nowhere else. Truth be told, he needed them as much as they needed him right now.

He opened the door as quietly as he could and stepped silently into the house. The overhead light on the stove was still on; from the front door he could see a note taped to the hood. Quietly laying the car keys on the side table and slipping off his coat and shoes, he tiptoed into the kitchen and took the note off the hood.

' _Steve, I know you need to get a good night's sleep – so I moved your stuff up to my room. I'm sleeping on the couch (please be quiet ha ha ha). We all have to be out early tomorrow – I'm going to the library and Irene is taking Mike to his dr.'s appointment – they're going to take a cab so don't worry about the car. We'll try to be quiet and let you sleep. Hugs, Jeannie_

 _PS Mike and Irene had a very good day – he stayed in bed all day! We all played crib, and she read to him some more, and she even helped me with dinner. But he kept asking me about you all day - PLEASE leave him a note to let him know you're okay so he quits bugging me, OK? He's driving me crazy ha ha ha!'_

Smiling to himself, Steve sagged against the counter. He turned the light off and slowly made his way in the dark to the stairs, stopping briefly to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark. He stared towards the sofa until he could see the vague outline of Jeannie under a pile of blankets, deeply asleep. He smiled warmly as he started up the stairs.

He headed towards Jeannie's room then stopped. He hesitated for a split second then opened the door of the master bedroom and took a step inside. The room was completely dark, but he could hear his partner's deep and even breaths. Unbidden tears suddenly sprung to his eyes and he quickly wiped them away as he took a step back out into the hall and closed the door.

He continued down the hall to Jeannie's room and shut the door before turning on the overhead light. Wearily, he sat on the edge of the bed. He held his right hand out and looked at it; it was shaking. The tears he had hoped to wipe away returned and as he stared at the floor, they trickled slowly down his cheeks and dripped off his chin.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 32**

"Okay, let's see how this has been healing." Dr. Alan Reynolds picked up the Lister bandage scissors and turned on the stool to face his left side of his patient's head.

Mike was also sitting on a tall stool; Irene was standing on his right, her hand on his shoulder. He took a deep breath and his eyes widened slightly. "Okay."

Reynolds chuckled. He had been the lieutenant's personal doctor for over a decade now, and had seen him through a number of work-related injuries; this was one of the most severe.

Expertly cutting through the gauze, Reynolds held the bandage together as he put the scissors down then stood to carefully lift the gauze away from Mike's forehead then very gently peal the lubricated dressing away from the wound itself.

"There we go," Reynolds said softly as he put the used bandage on the counter and leaned in to take a closer look at the healing wound.

Mike, who had closed his eyes, opened them again, releasing a held breath. "How does it look, Doc?"

Reynolds didn't speak for a few seconds as he studied the wound site, gently touching the area on both sides of the laceration. Irene, who had also closed her eyes and increased the pressure of her hand on Mike's shoulder, stood perfectly still, biting her lower lip and breathing slowly and shallowly.

"Well, in my humble opinion," the physician began, whimsy in his deep voice, "I believe you are well on the way to a complete recovery, Lieutenant." Chuckling, he sat back and glanced up at Irene, who opened her eyes and smiled. "You can both relax," he continued as he pushed the stool back and got to his feet, peeling off the latex gloves and dropping them on the counter.

"Which doesn't mean," he continued, turning to the small aluminum sink to wash his hands, "that you've got the green light to return to a normal life, Mike. The fracture in your skull is still mending, just like any other broken bone, and it's still a long way from being completely healed. So you still have to heed what your neurologist told you, get plenty of bed rest and take it easy, and in another two or three weeks, we'll see how you're doing and… loosen the leash a little." He smiled, with a warm, knowing chuckle. "How does that sound?"

Mike glanced up at Irene and grinned. "Sounds good to me, Doc." He felt the pressure of her hand increase on her shoulder.

Reynolds glanced up at the heretofore silent woman. "What do you think, Irene? It's healing well, isn't it?" He knew she hadn't looked at the back of Mike's head, and she was showing no signs of wanting to, but instinct told him that she needed to overcome her reluctance if she was going to be able to come to terms with the reality of her fiancé's injury. He knew what had happened the night the lieutenant has been injured, and he surmised the pair still had a ways to go before they could come to grips with what had happened to the both of them.

Psychiatry wasn't his specialty and he would leave that up to the experts. But what he could do was help her overcome her fear that Mike's injury was more serious, or more permanent, than she had been led to believe.

She looked at the doctor with scared eyes from under a furrowed brow; she knew what he was asking her to do. He maintained eye contact until she dropped her gaze and nodded slightly, bending down and redirecting her stare. Mike had lowered his head to give her a better look. He felt her hand on his shoulder tighten once again and he held his breath.

There were a few seconds of tense silence then she said breathlessly with a relieved sigh, "It looks good." Her fingers eased up on his shoulder and she ran her hand down his chest and briefly pulled him back towards her in an impromptu hug.

Smiling warmly, Reynolds moved the stool into the corner then turned to the counter and picked something up. Turning back to his patient, he said with a chuckle, "I've got a little present for you, Mike."

The cop swiveled on the stool to face him, his expression questioning, head tilted. An apprehensive smile touched his lips and his eyes.

"Don't worry," Reynolds laughed, glancing at Irene and taking a step forward. He was holding what looked like a black knit cap and Mike looked up at Irene and raised his eyebrows.

Reynolds stopped directly in front of Mike and held the toque out for him to see. "When I told Donna you were coming in today," he began, referring to his head nurse, whom Mike had also known for years, "she put this together for you. You can wear this when you sleep and it'll help protect your head."

Mike took the hat from the doctor's hands and examined it. From the outside it looked like a normal toque, but sewn inside was a thick gauze pad that would cover the laceration on the back of his head. He sagged slightly where he was sitting, bringing one hand up to his face to cover his mouth. Irene knew he was overwhelmed and she took a step towards him and stroked his upper arm.

He cleared his throat. "Wow… um, this is, ah… this is wonderful. Remind me to give her a hug on the way out, okay?" he said quietly, and Reynolds glanced at Irene, giving her a warm, understanding wink.

# # # # #

"Mrs…. ah, Ulansky?" Steve asked as he and Wilson approached the counter, both holding out their stars and I.D.'s.

The middle-aged woman, glasses around her neck on a chain, looked up with a frown. "Yes?" Her flat voice held not one hint of welcome.

Clearing his throat slightly, Steve glanced at his partner then turned on the charm. "Uh, I'm Inspector Keller and this is Sergeant Wilson. I called you earlier about going through some property files about the apartment building at –"

"That one on 17th?" she interrupted, staring at the younger cop without expression.

"Uh… yes… yes, that would be the one," Steve recovered quickly, flashing the smile that usually never failed to get him what he desired.

She snorted and looked down at the paper on the counter in front of her. "We're busy and I haven't had a chance to pull the file yet." She gestured towards a bank of chairs against the wall by the door. "Take a seat and I'll call you when we get the file pulled."

Steve opened his mouth to say something then thought better of it and snapped his jaw shut. He glanced at Wilson, who was staring at the top of Mrs. Ulansky's head with barely-concealed frustrated amusement. The two detectives looked at each other and shrugged, then turned to the chairs and sat.

With a sigh, Wilson looked at his watch. "It's a good thing we don't have to be back on 17th till 9…," he grumbled with a chuckle, "it gives us almost eight hours to sit here and wait."

"No no no," Steve tutted, shaking his head, "they're off the clock here at 5, so we only have four hours to kill…" he chuckled, stretching out in the wooden chair and crossing his legs, folding his hands on his stomach.

Wilson looked around with a sigh. "So, did you get a good night's sleep?" Steve had, uncharacteristically, been a half hour late getting to the Hall of Records, arriving slightly disheveled and on the fly.

Steve had tilted his head back and closed his eyes. "Yeah, I did actually. Jeannie'd moved my stuff up to her room and I slept on a real bed last night. It sure helped – I slept all the way through my alarm… obviously." He opened his eyes and looked at Wilson. "Sorry about that… again…"

Wilson laughed. "Don't worry about it. I understand completely, and I, actually, had a good night's sleep as well. It must have been that hearty Russian repast…"

Steve chuckled. "Yeah, that and the fact that we actually laid eyeballs on Vlad and Igor… and, as far as we know, they didn't slip past us and, uh…. you know…"

"Yeah, that too." Wilson's voice was barely above a whisper. They both fell silent for several long seconds.

"Look, ah," Steve said suddenly, sitting up slightly, "if we get out of here at a decent hour, I'd like to drop by the house for dinner tonight. I haven't seen Mike, and Irene and Jeannie, in a couple of days and I'd like to…"

"Hey, no, I understand…"

Steve glanced at the older man from the corner of his eye. "You wanna come with me?"

Wilson pursed his lips and paused, but didn't look over. Then he shook his head slightly. "Thanks for the invite but, nah, not yet. I want to have something solid to… you know… to bring to her. And we really haven't got that yet…"

Steve nodded slowly. "Yeah, I get ya…"

"But, ah, but tell her I'm thinking about her… all the time. Will you do that?"

Steve smiled and looked down. "Yeah, I'll do that…"

# # # # #

"You know, those stairs never used to bother me but, god, it takes forever to get up here from the car." With an exhausted sigh, Mike lowered himself slowly onto the bed, staring at the floor.

"It's because you're nowhere near a hundred percent right now, and you know that," Irene explained calmly as she helped him slip his jacket off then bent down to remove his shoes. "How's your head?" she asked as she stood back up, staring at his downturned face.

"It's pounding a bit," he admitted, closing his eyes.

"I'm gonna get you a painkiller then you're going to lie down, you understand? No getting out of bed for the rest of the day, except maybe for dinner."

"You'll get no argument from me," he agreed with a low chuckle as she reached out to slowly and carefully pull the black toque off his head. She put it on the bed table then put her hands under his jaw and lifted his face towards her. She leaned forward and kissed him, then carefully pulled his head to her stomach and held him close. As he put his arms around her, she leaned down and gently kissed the top of his head.

# # # # #

The door was unlocked, and as he opened it, stepping from the chilly twilight into the warm amber of the living room, the low murmur of a big-band tune and the appetizing smell of dinner assaulted his senses. Wearing an apron and a frown, Irene stepped into the kitchen entrance, smiling when she saw him. "Steve, we weren't expecting you home for dinner!"

Instantly Jeannie appeared at her elbow, grinning. "But we're sure glad you're here. I'll set another place at the table."

Laughing, Steve hung up his coat before following both women back into the kitchen. "I'm only here for a couple of hours," he said with a shrug, and they knew what he meant. And he knew they wouldn't ask him anything about the investigation. He reached out and slipped an arm around Irene's shoulders, briefly pulling her close. She smiled warmly at him. He would wait until the time was right before passing on Wilson's regards.

"So what's for dinner?" he asked, smiling at Jeannie as he indicated the oven with his chin.

"Shepherd's pie," she told him as she reached into the cupboard for another plate. "But it won't be ready for at least another half hour." She turned to him. "Why don't you go upstairs and talk to Mike for awhile?" She smiled at him lovingly.

Steve shook his head, grinning and looking down. He felt Irene give him an encouraging squeeze. Both women knew what he was going through, and how much he needed his partner right now. "Go on," Irene said quietly.

As he turned to go, Jeannie said after him, "We'll come and get you both when dinner's ready."

Steve climbed the stairs with a mixture of anticipation and dread. As much as he wanted to see and talk to his best friend, he wasn't sure how much, if anything, he wanted to tell him.

He knocked gently on the door but hearing no response, he opened it quietly and slipped in. The bed table lamp was on so the room wasn't in complete darkness.

Mike, in pajamas, was lying on his back against a mound of pillows with his eyes closed, blankets pulled up to his waist and both hands on his stomach. Steve frowned as he approached the bed; the white gauze bandage around his head had been replaced with what looked like a black knit cap.

With a silent surprised snort, Steve dropped into the nearby armchair, leaning forward and rubbing both hands over his tired face. When he looked back up, Mike was staring at him with a warm grin.

"Howdy, stranger."


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 33**

"Well, hello, sailor." Steve's grin was affectionate and relieved.

Mike's brows knit slightly then he chuckled, eyes widening. "Oh, this." He reached up and gently pulled the black cap off his head, holding it out. "I went to see Doc Reynolds this morning and he took the bandage off. But Donna… his nurse?" Steve nodded, eyebrows bobbing. "Well, she made this for me." He turned it inside out to reveal the padding sewn on the inside. "It'll protect my head when I sleep. That was pretty nice of her, wasn't it?"

Mike looked up at his young partner, eyes wide with such an innocent wonder that Steve's heart leapt. That was one of the things about the older man that continued to awe him, an almost childlike guilelessness about certain things that was constantly refreshing.

Steve took the toque and looked at it admiringly. "That's great, it really is." He handed it back. "So what did Reynolds say?"

Mike put the cap on the bed. "Oh, ah, I'm doing great… just, ah, have to take it easy for another couple of weeks and, ah, we'll see…" He shrugged with a tilt of his head and raised brows.

Steve smiled back but there was a touch of worry in his eyes that he couldn't mask.

Mike took a deep breath. "So, what's going on with you?"

With a chuckle, leaning back in the armchair and crossing his legs, Steve glanced away. "We're, ah, we're making progress."

"Oh yeah? What kind?"

Mike's eyes bored into him and he shook his head with a laugh, looking down.

"Come on," Mike urged, "you know I'm not going anywhere. And maybe I can help… in some way."

Steve stared at him expressionlessly, and Mike waited. With a sardonic chuckle, looking down again and shaking his head, Steve leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. "I think we might know who they are…" he said quietly, staring into the familiar blue eyes. They widened slightly but Mike's expression didn't change.

"Wow, that was quick work. You got names?" the older man asked softly, surprise in his voice.

Steve smiled and shook his head. "No, not yet. We're working on that."

"Okay. So, come on, fill me in?" Mike's voice was still soft and low but his eyes got brighter, brimming with anticipation. When the younger man hesitated, his voice got even lower. "Look, Steve, I'm not going to interfere, you know that… but I feel so god damn useless just lying here. What happened, happened to me… and Irene… and I haven't been able to do anything about it… for either of us…" He sighed loudly, setting his head gently back onto the pillows and closing his eyes, trying to get his frustration under control.

Steve stared at him for several long seconds then snorted. "I swear to god if I hear about you getting out of this bed and trying to leave the house, I'll handcuff you to the headboard. Do you understand me?"

Mike had opened his eyes and stared at him impassively while he spoke. Then, as the silence stretched out between them, Mike blinked once very slowly then said calmly, "Are you done?"

Steve's head snapped back as if stung and he froze, then a smile broke through and he chuckled. He dropped his head and shook it vigorously, growling in feigned annoyance then looked up, still smiling, still shaking his head; Mike was staring at him with a wide-eyed, broad grinned innocence. "God, I've missed you."

The older man's smile wavered and he swallowed heavily. "Me too."

Steve leaned forward and slapped Mike's arm then sat back again, stretching out. "All right, I'll tell you about it but for god's sake –"

"I know, I know, it doesn't leave this room." Mike's smile disappeared. "So, what _is_ going on, Steve? Why does it seem to me that it's just you and Bob working on this and not half the department… you know what I'm saying?"

The younger man was staring into the blue eyes; he looked down quickly and took a deep breath. "Because we think the FBI might be involved…"

Mike's brow furrowed. "The FBI? What do you mean?"

Clearing his throat lightly, Steve told his partner about Bob Wilson's initial meeting with Captain Clarke and how they had been denied involvement in the investigation of the assault and rape, but that there was another avenue of investigation they should go down. Mike, beginning to frown, listened without a word.

Surprisingly, Steve began to smile slightly. "Clarke, ah… Clarke gave Bob the name of someone he thought we should talk to. A woman. So we did." The smile turned into an almost cheeky grin. "And, as a matter of fact, you know her as well."

"I do?" The younger man nodded. With a confused smile, Mike pulled his head back slightly. "Who?"

"Beverly Landau."

Mike's eyes widened and he gave a short, sharp laugh. "You're kidding? Beverly Landau?" Steve nodded, eyes wide. "What does she have to do with all this? She's not, ah…?" he gestured vaguely.

"No, no, she got out of the business," Steve completed the thought, "but she's sort of stayed in touch with the girls on the street." His smile disappeared. "There've been a number of assaults and rapes of some of the street pros in the last couple of months –"

"And you think it might be the same guys that attacked Irene?" Mike interrupted, though his voice remained calm.

Steve shrugged slightly. "That seemed to be what Clarke was getting at."

"And?"

"Well, from what Beverly told us, it didn't sound like the same thing at first." He filled Mike in on the few details they knew from their interviews with the assault victims.

"How did you get in touch with them? Did Beverly give you their names? And how are the FBI involved?"

"Whoa, whoa," Steve laughed, holding up a hand. "Slow down, will ya? You're making me get ahead of myself."

Mike chuckled, glancing down; it felt good to get his brain going again. He put a hand on his face, looked at Steve and sighed with a laugh. "Sorry. It just feels great to have something to think about other than myself and Irene for a change." He froze then his eyes slid slowly up to Steve, filled with guilt. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to sound like that…" He closed his eyes and dropped his head, angry at himself.

"Hey," Steve said gently, sitting forward and laying a comforting hand on his partner's forearm, "don't worry about it. I know how I'd feel if I had to sit here doing nothing for a few weeks so… don't worry about it." He sat back and grinned. "To be honest, it's great to have you back."

Mike's growing smile wavered and disappeared; his eyes brightened and he swallowed heavily again. "So… ah… so how did you get their names?" he asked quietly, suddenly self-conscious but inwardly elated.

"Well, to back up a bit," Steve said pointedly, raising his eyebrows, "Beverly told us of some rumors that had been making the rounds on the streets."

"My favorite place," Mike said with a happy smirk and a chuckle.

Steve laughed, then told him about the allegations that the perpetrators were from back east and that they were on the West Coast at the behest of the FBI.

"And they're Russian," Mike stated flatly when Steve paused to take a breath. The younger man raised his eyebrows and nodded. "I was wondering what connection that, ah, word you asked about had to do with all this. And that's why Bob went to New York?"

"Yeah," Steve confirmed and then stopped short. "Wait a second, I didn't tell you that he went to New York. How -?"

"Jeannie told me. I don't think she thought it was a secret," Mike smiled.

The younger man narrowed his eyes and smirked. It seemed there was nothing that slipped by unnoticed in the Stone household. "Anyway," he said slowly, emphasizing every syllable, "to backtrack slightly, Beverly seemed to insinuate that not much was being done by the department to look into these rapes… for, I guess, obvious reasons if the FBI are involved."

"So what? You're thinking that these guys are out here in Witness Protection…?"

Steve nodded, bobbing his head slightly. "Well, one of them anyway. We went to see Barry Collier –"

"Your old boss!" Mike exclaimed happily and Steve froze, shooting him a faux peeved glare.

"You know, the more you interrupt me, the longer this is going to take."

Chuckling, trying his hardest to look contrite, Mike nodded as quickly as he dared. "You're right, sorry… Please… go on…"

Shaking his head in mock frustration, Steve continued. "Yes, my old boss. We were hoping that Vice had current addresses on the ladies in question and well… we came out of there with the feeling that these assaults and rapes were going uninvestigated and, in fact, any interest being actively discouraged."

Mike's smile had disappeared and he sat in silence, his frown deepening.

Steve sighed, his brows going up. "But he did get us the addresses and we talked to the girls… and that's how we got that Russian expression we brought to you." He smiled. "Anyway, long story short, Bob had this connection with a guy in New York who knew about the Bureau and the WP program, but who didn't want to talk to him over the phone… a little paranoid, I guess," he shrugged.

"Maybe with reason," Mike offered quietly. "Those Russian mobs are nothing to fool around with – they mean business and they're more ruthless than the Italians."

Steve nodded. "So the guy in New York wasn't able – or willing – to give us a name, at least the new one that he's using out here – but we did get a picture." Mike's eyebrows rose. "And for the past couple of days, we've been practicing Police Procedures 101. We went through all the local phone books for Russian restaurants…" Mike's smile began to reappear. "…And we've been staking them out."

Through a proud, mile-wide grin, the older man asked hopefully, "Any luck?"

Steve hesitated for a beat. He was now going from things that had happened in the near past to things that were unfolding in the present and the very near future. He wasn't sure how much more he should reveal. The reluctance wasn't lost on Mike and he asked gently, "You found him, didn't you?"

After another beat of uncertainly and a vague nod, Steve said quietly, "Yeah. We found both of them."

Mike looked down at the bedspread covering his legs, his gaze unfocusing. He took a deep steadying breath then let it out slowly. He suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to hear anymore. Steve waited, watching him closely. After several long silent seconds, Mike turned his head slowly, his eyes frighteningly haunted.

"You were staking them out last night, weren't you?"

Steve nodded slowly. "As far as we know, they didn't get past us… it wasn't their night to hunt, I guess."

Mike nodded vaguely, his mind still obviously elsewhere. With Irene, Steve surmised, and he bit his lip, suddenly angry with himself for telling Mike more than he'd intended.

"You're going back out tonight?" The question was so quiet that Steve barely heard it.

"Yeah."

Mike turned to face him and his eyes were dark with worry. "For god's sake, Steve, be careful." He reached out and grabbed his partner's forearm. "Promise me neither of you will do anything stupid or dangerous, right?"

Steve smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, we won't do anything you wouldn't do."

The older man's frown deepened then slowly the smirk emerged. "Smart ass," he said quietly, then chuckled and looked away briefly. "Look, I don't want to know what you're going to do, 'cause I know it'll just make me worry all the more… but, damn it, Steve…" He inhaled sharply and looked away again.

Steve pulled his arm from under Mike's hand and reached up to cup the back of the older man's neck, squeezing carefully, an affectionate gesture that he was more used to receiving than imparting. "Don't worry, Bob and I know what we have to do. We're not going to take any chances." And besides, he thought to himself, both partners had scores to settle… and nothing was going to prevent them from accomplishing that little task.

Nothing.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 34**

Jeannie put the dish rack and drainer tray under the sink then wiped the counter down. She took off the rubber gloves and glanced around the kitchen. Satisfied that it was looking the way is should, clean and neat, she tossed the gloves in with the dish rack and closed the cupboard door, glancing at the clock on the wall near the back door. 9:30.

They had enjoyed a delicious meal, the shepherd's pie having turned out perfectly, and there had been, if not outright euphoria, genuine high spirits and affection. Even Irene had shed a good deal of her unrelenting melancholia and enjoyed herself.

Now she and Mike were back up in his room and Steve, after helping the older man up the stairs and a final few minutes alone together, had left to do… god only knows. She knew her father was worried; he had shot furtive, furrowed-brow glances at the younger man all through dinner. But she knew better than to ask either one of them what was going on.

She turned off the lights on the first floor and was heading up the stairs to her bedroom when a thought hit her and she stopped mid-flight. She hesitated for several seconds then, nodding in affirmation, turned around and headed back towards the kitchen.

She opened the latch to the basement door; the musty damp smell rushed up the stairs and blew past her into the kitchen. She snapped on the light and started down the rickety staircase; the dangling lone hundred-watt uncovered bulb cast long shadows around the dark-walled unfinished room piled high with large blue Rubbermaid tubs and cardboard boxes of various sizes.

Looking around, her hands on her hips, she sighed. She easily recognized the boxes she was looking for and actually took a step towards them then stopped, suddenly uncertain. Her deep sigh was laden with sadness.

It was less than three weeks till Christmas. Most years Mike would have the tree up by now, but he would wait till she had returned from school to decorate it.

But it just didn't feel right to be celebrating this year, she thought sadly, turning slowly and starting back up the stairs.

# # # # #

Irene closed the door and crossed to the bed. Mike, wearing the black knit cap, was already lying down, facing the ceiling, his eyes closed and both hands, fingers laced, on his stomach. She sat on the edge of the bed, turned off the lamp then stretched out, turning on her side to face him, putting a hand over his and squeezing.

She saw him smile slightly but otherwise he didn't move. She took a deep breath, suddenly unsure if she should give voice to what had been on her mind all evening. After watching him breathe for several long seconds, she shook his hands, squeezing them again, and she leaned closer. "You're worried about Steve, aren't you?" she asked softly.

He caught and held his breath for a few beats, then his features twitched almost imperceptibly and, without opening his eyes, he nodded slightly.

She knew he wouldn't tell her, and for that she was grateful. But she also knew she wanted, and needed, to help him get through the next few hours and possibly days. She swallowed heavily and leaned her head against his shoulder. "They're going after them, aren't they? He and Bob," she said quietly and she felt him nod, heard him inhale deeply.

"I made him promise," Mike whispered and she held her breath. "I made him promise to come in and wake me when he got home tonight… so I would know…you know…?" She felt his ragged breath and she held his hands tighter.

She snuggled against him even closer, taking her hand off his and wrapping her arm around his chest, pulling herself against him. She knew he would get no sleep tonight.

# # # # #

Wearing a black windbreaker and the 'Niners ball cap, Steve was slumped down behind the wheel of Mike's blue sedan, the binoculars in his lap and the walkie-talkie on the seat beside him. He had been staring at the door of the grey apartment building on 17th for the past hour and a half.

The irritating crackle broke the silence once again; he knew it was Wilson checking in from his position in his own Buick station wagon three blocks away. Steve picked up the handset and thumbed the push-to-talk button. "Still nothing. Let's give it another hour or so, you think?"

"Yeah, sounds good to me. You want me to spell you for a bit, change cars?"

"Naw, I'm good. Jeannie filled my thermos with some pretty strong coffee. I might still be awake at noon tomorrow," he laughed, releasing the button; Wilson's gentle chuckle floated through the car from the receiver. He was just about to put the handset down when a taxi turned the corner onto 17th from California; Steve sat up a little straighter as it slowed down then came to a stop outside the apartment building.

He brought the handset to his mouth again and hit the button. "Bob… we may have something…" He picked up the binoculars.

"What's going on?"

The front door of the apartment opened and a black clad figure exited the building and crossed to the cab, getting into the back seat quickly. As the door slammed closed, the yellow roof light snapped off and the taxi resumed its journey down the street.

Steve quickly lowered the binoculars and ducked. "I'm pretty sure Igor just got into a cab. Yellow. It's coming your way, probably going to turn left onto Geary. It just went past me. Let me know if you pick it up; I have to turn around."

"Gotcha." The connection went dead. Steve stared at the retreating taxi in the rear-view mirror, waiting till it signaled then made the turn onto Geary. He started the sedan and swung it into a tight U-turn, barreling down the street to the corner then making the turn himself.

The radio crackled again. "Got it," Wilson announced, "it's a block ahead. Still on Geary."

Steve picked up the handset. "Great. I'm a couple of blocks behind you."

Traffic was fairly heavy, which was both a good and a bad thing. It made it harder for them to keep the cab in sight but it also made it easier for them to blend in with the other cars.

"They're still on Geary," came Wilson's voice over the two-way. "It doesn't look like he's gonna change cabs to cover his tracks. Arrogant bastards." It wasn't hard to hear the anger in his voice even through the tinny speaker.

"I'm right behind you," Steve said in due course and he saw Wilson tap his brakes in greeting and confirmation. Ahead of them, he saw a yellow cab turn left onto Van Ness; towards Broadway, he knew.

"Okay, we're getting close," Wilson broadcast as they both followed the taxi, at a safe distance, north on the busy Van Ness.

"Got it."

Three blocks south of Broadway, the cab swung right onto Washington and slowed to stop. Wilson let it go, continuing up Van Ness for another block then turning onto Jackson. Steve followed the cab, driving past it towards Polk and making a quick right turn. There was a space in front of a fire hydrant near the corner and he angled the blue sedan into it, getting out and sprinting back to the corner, walkie-talkie in hand.

He flattened himself again the brick wall and peered cautiously around the corner. The cab was still in the middle of the street, the back door open. The black clad figure got out and slammed the door and the taxi continued down the street. Igor, and Steve hoped it _was_ Igor, crossed between the parked cars to the far sidewalk and started down the street in his direction.

Steve stepped back onto Polk and turned the gain down on the walkie-talkie then pressed the button. "He's on the north side of Washington moving toward Polk."

"I'm on Jackson," Wilson came back in a whisper. "Let me know if he turns up Polk. If he does, I'll fall into step behind him and you can circle around by Larkin and pick him up again."

"Got it." Steve poked his head cautiously around the corner in time to see Igor approaching the corner and turn left. "He's coming your way."

"Ten-four." Steve dropped his hands down to his side, hiding the radio, and turned south on Polk, resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder. He strode as quickly as he could to the corner, turning east on Clay then breaking into a run to the end of the block and then north on Larkin.

"I've got him," Wilson confirmed. "He's staying on Polk. And the bastard hasn't looked over his shoulder once."

Slowing down to catch his breath, Steve brought the walkie up to his mouth. "Keep your eyes peeled for Vlad; he's gotta be around here somewhere."

"For sure."

Steve had reached the corner of Larkin and Pacific, one block south of Broadway, when the handset crackled again. "Someone's standing at the northeast corner of Polk and Broadway. Looks like our boy. Igor's crossing to the other side of Polk. Where are you?"

"On my way up to Broadway, on Larkin. Be there in seconds." Wilson could hear the younger man's heavy breathing as he broke into a run.

Steve stopped running when he made the turn onto the south side of Broadway, his eyes immediately and instinctively snapping down the street to the corner Wilson had mentioned. Amongst the throng of humanity making its way up and down the street, Christmas shoppers, night life aficionados and johns looking for a trick, stood the man they had dubbed Vlad. And though he was dressed all in black, from his boots and pants to the navy pea coat and knit cap, he didn't necessarily stand out.

Turning his back, Steve raised the handset. "I've got Vlad."

"Igor's just crossing Broadway."

No sooner did the words die on the air than the second man came into view, and immediately the pair turned and started west along Broadway.

"I'll take the north side," Steve said as he saw Wilson appear at the corner of Larkin and Broadway. "Stay back at least a block."

"Got it."

Looking both ways and maneuvering through the heavy traffic, Steve managed to get across the street and still keep an eye on their quarry. He and Wilson had to catch them in the act or they wouldn't be able to arrest them. The next few minutes could prove to be very dangerous or very frustrating. He hoped for the former, with the best of results.

Vlad and Igor seemed to be just taking a walk. They had passed several obvious working girls without so much as an inappropriate glance; Steve began to wonder if they were wrong, that maybe these two weren't the rapists after all.

He was crossing Gough and had just stepped up onto the curb when a big black man, coming out of a bodega, his head down, walked into him, knocking Steve back and almost putting him on his ass. The other guy reached out and grabbed Steve's jacket as he stumbled, pulling him back onto his feet.

"Hey, geez, sorry, man, I didn't see ya." The cop got his balance back and shook his head, momentarily stunned. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Steve said quickly, making sure he still had the walkie-talkie in his hand after the unexpectedly hard hit, then looked down the street. He couldn't see Vlad or Igor. "I'm fine," he growled, brushing past his unwitting, and now very perplexed, assailant, raising the handset to his mouth and weaving his way through the pedestrian traffic as fast as he could.

"Bob, I lost 'em. Do you have them?"

There was a few seconds of almost intolerable silence then the handset crackled. "I can't see them either. They couldn't be far. I'm crossing the street; I'll join you."

Steve slowed down, his head swiveling as he tried to see around and through the throngs of people on both sides of the street. There seemed to be too many people around for them to be so brazen as to pull someone off the street. But then he realized that hustle and bustle, and the continuous din of car horns and engines, shouts, laughter and loud conversation was the perfect cover.

Wilson appeared at his side, both pairs of cop's eyes now scouring either side of the street. All they could see were buildings on both sides. Steve could feel the frustration rising and he forced himself to regain some semblance of control, hearing Mike's voice in his ear, warning him to keep his head and his wits about him.

Wilson put a hand on his arm and they both slid to a stop. The older man was looking across the street and Steve followed his stare. It took a few seconds for his eyes to focus but there, between two tall concrete and brick buildings, was an alley.

Wilson looked at him and they both nodded almost indiscernibly. Not taking their eyes from the entrance to the alley, they picked their way through the heavy traffic, both of them unsnapping their holsters, circumspectly slipping their .38's from their holsters.

Steve crossed to the far side of the alley and leaned against the wall. Wilson did the same on his side. Making eye contact, they both bent down slowly and placed their walkie-talkie handsets on the concrete against the sides of the building then, raising their .38's in front of them, stepped into the alley.


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 35**

Still on the sidewalk, but hugging the walls of the buildings beside them, Steve and Wilson both reached into their windbreaker pockets and slipped out the small black department-issue flashlights.

Steve stepped forward slowly, feeling the ground with the sole of his foot before shifting his full weight onto it; he wanted to make sure he wasn't going to step on anything that would make noise and announce his presence. He knew Wilson was doing the same.

Every sense on the alert, the two detectives, their .38's and flashlights held at arm's length at eye level, made their way with wary deliberation into the almost pitch-black alley. Muted streetlamp spill dimly illuminated the high concrete walls on either side but straight ahead was an impenetrable inky black recess. Steve cocked his head slightly, an almost involuntary action that he hoped would increase his sense of hearing.

The clatter from the street behind him confirmed what he'd earlier acknowledged – that Vlad and Igor were using the natural cacophony of the city to mask whatever sounds might escape during their assaults. It was not a comforting thought. He glanced to his left; Wilson had no doubt come to the same conclusion.

He inhaled deeply, suddenly remembering to breathe, leaving his mouth open. It was then that he heard it, an indistinct scraping sound, like a shoe against asphalt. They both froze and looked at each other, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. Though it was too dark to see little more than the other's outline, they were in sync and they knew it.

They had discussed their prospective plan of attack earlier, based on what they had learned from the victims they had interviewed, as well as Irene's account of what had happened to her. From what they had learned, both men had been full participants in the assault at all times; the attack on Mike had been an aberration, initiated, they surmised, by Mike's calling of Irene's name and his entry into the alley.

This was what they were now counting on, that both Vlad and Igor would be entirely fixated on the violation and unprepared for their appearance. Steve's heart was pounding in his ears so loudly he could barely hear himself think.

Both detectives took another step forward. A muted, muffled, frightened moan floated out of the black depths before them, followed immediately by the sound of a blow, like a fist striking a face. The moaning stopped abruptly.

Steve knew they had to move and move fast. He glanced over at Wilson then took two quick steps forward, no longer caring about what he would step on or kick. The accidental disclosure of their presence was not an issue anymore.

With four quick steps they could just about discern the vague outline of writhing bodies; they dropped into shooting stances, both flashlights snapping on almost simultaneously. "Police! Freeze!" Wilson ordered at the top of his lungs and all movement stopped. There was a beat of stunned silence as the beams of light caught Vlad on top of their helpless, unmoving victim; Igor was kneeling above her head, pinning her arms down with his hands. His rictus, lust-filled grin disappeared in the harsh white light.

"Get up," Steve growled, taking a step closer. They knew they had to act fast before the Russian pair realized there were only two of them.

Staring unblinkingly into the blinding light, Vlad roughly pushed himself erect and was just about to stand when Steve commanded, "Lie on your stomach!"

Vlad froze mid-rise and continued to stare into the light. The two detectives couldn't be sure if he was just being belligerent or if he really didn't understand English, although the latter seemed inconceivable.

"Lie down and put your hands behind your back!" Steve ordered again. Up this close he realized that the Russian gangster was a lot bigger and thicker than he'd been expecting; he swallowed nervously, knowing he had to get the upper hand immediately or this could spiral out of control very quickly.

Wilson was concentrating on Igor, who had removed his hands from the victim's arms and sat back slightly but otherwise had not moved. He could sense a trace of tension in Steve's voice that he hoped the Russians wouldn't be able to discern.

With an almost silent grunt, Vlad dropped heavily to his knees then put his hands on the ground and began to lower himself onto his stomach. Unnervingly, he continued to stare into the flashlight beam.

Trying not to move the beam, Steve shifted the flashlight to his gun hand, keeping his finger on the trigger, and reached behind his back to snap the handcuffs off his belt. Vlad, seeing the light shift slightly, froze, and Wilson's eyes left Igor momentarily.

As if an imperceptible signal passed between them, both Russians made their move. They shot to their feet, Vlad diving straight towards Steve as Igor leapt to his right, out of Wilson's flashlight beam.

A deafening shot rang out, echoing loudly in the narrow concrete-lined space.

Steve, dropping his right hand in an attempt to keep the light and the barrel of the .38 on his quarry, felt the handcuffs slip from his left hand as the solid, muscle hard body of the Russian rapist slammed into him waist high. He felt himself flying backwards, landing hard on the pavement, the back of his head smacking solidly against the asphalt. He cried out in pain as something razor sharp penetrated the black windbreaker and dug into his back. Stunned, he felt the flashlight sail from his hand as the Russian repositioned himself to make a grab for the .38 that was somehow still in his grip.

Throwing his body on top of the smaller cop, Vlad reached up and grabbed Steve's right forearm, trying to bend his elbow to get closer to the gun. In pain, unable to take a deep breath, Steve threw a left-handed punch that hit only air. Desperately, he grabbed the Russian's coat and tried to pull him off; Vlad was definitely heavier and stronger. His right forearm was lifted into the air and slammed back down onto the pavement. Pain seared through the back of his hand but he held onto the gun, knowing that if he lost control, he was dead.

# # # # #

Mike gasped and caught his breath.

Irene's head snapped up and she stared at his profile in the dark, listening to his suddenly ragged breathing, knowing his eyes were open and his heart was pounding. She pulled her arm away from around his chest and laid her hand over his again, squeezing warmly.

She pushed herself higher on the bed until her lips were close to his ear. "He's a great cop… he has wonderful instincts… And you taught him well…" She kissed his cheek and laid her head on his shoulder. "He'll be okay."

She felt the deep, unsteady breath that shook his entire body.

# # # # #

Igor had disappeared into the inky blackness but Wilson heard him scrambling away. The shot had come from his .38, intending to scare; it worked. From the corner of his eye, he tried to keep track of what was Steve was encountering with Vlad; the Russian had the upper hand, he knew, and he held his breath, waiting for another shot, the one that would mean Steve Keller was dead.

In desperation, he stepped deeper into the alley, his flashlight and gun sweeping the discarded crates, boxes and tarpaulins the filled the cavernous space. He took another step forward; he could hear the struggle behind him, hear Steve groaning as he fought to maintain possession of his .38. He felt helpless.

An indistinct sound reached his ears from his immediate left. Instinctively he ducked; he could feel the rush of air past his ear and above his head as something heavy swished by so close it touched his hair. Launching himself in the direction of the attack, he felt his shoulder smash into an unsuspecting torso and the sudden stunned exhalation of air as Igor doubled over, the weapon dropping from his hands to clang onto the pavement. The Russian slammed back into the wall and Wilson turned towards him, his right elbow raised, striking the side of Igor's head, snapping it back against the wall. Even in the blackness, Wilson could see the Russian's eyes roll back as he slumped to the garbage-strewn ground.

# # # # #

Ignoring the pain in his hand, head, and back, Steve continued to struggle in the dark for possession of the gun, holding it above his head. Unable to gain ground, Vlad scrambled to his knees and, with all the strength he could gather, raised his left hand and backhanded the cop across the face.

Stars shot through Steve's vision and his head swam; he tasted blood immediately. Stunned, he felt Vlad scramble over him, reaching for the gun. Unable to tighten his fist on the grip of the .38, he felt the strong fingers of his assailant tighten on his arm as he reached for the gun.

Suddenly there was a rush of movement and Vlad's body was propelled violently sideways as he screamed in pain.

The heavy weight no longer pinning him down but with almost every part of his body, it seemed, screaming in pain, Steve knew he had to subdue the Russian, but he couldn't move. From somewhere in the fog that muffled the sounds trying to penetrate his brain, he could hear Wilson frantically calling his name.

He raised his head slowly, trying to make out something, anything, in the murky darkness. Someone was standing over him; he knew it wasn't Wilson or Vlad. He narrowed his eyes, blinking slowly, trying to focus.

Wilson called his name again. With a groan, he pushed himself up on one elbow, still trying to make sense of what had just happened. His hearing started to clear and he could hear a soft moaning… a feminine moaning. His eyes finally began to clear and his vision coalesced.

The young brunette prostitute was standing over him, her clothes torn, her hair disheveled. Blood was visible at the corner of her mouth and her lips were swollen. There was a cut over her left eye. In her hands was one of her stiletto shoes, blood on the heel.

# # # # #

"How are you doing?" Wilson asked with a dry chuckle as he entered the Emergency cubicle.

Steve was sitting on the gurney, trying to pull his bloody shirt on with his bandaged right hand. There was a small gauze bandage on his right cheek. He looked up and frowned good-naturedly.

"How come I look like hell and you haven't got a scratch on you?"

Wilson crossed closer to the gurney and picked up the shirt, helping the younger man slip it on. Steve moaned and closed his eyes as he arched his back to slip his right arm through the sleeve. "That's because you decided to take on Vlad. Igor, it turned out, is more of a follower…"

"You know they pulled a chunk of glass out of my back too? A piece of a broken beer bottle. Five stitches, and I ruined Mike's windbreaker."

Wilson pulled the plackets of the shirt together and was starting to do up the buttons. The move reminded Steve too much of his partner and he gently slapped Wilson's hands away with a chuckle. "Hey, I can do this. I didn't break my hand, you know, just cracked a… a metacarpal bone. I'll be okay in a couple of days."

"Yeah," Wilson said softly. "Listen, ah, I know it's been a hell of a night already, but they really need us back at the Hall. There's still a hell of a lot to get started on tonight. You good to go?"

Steve nodded, ducking his head slightly as the dull headache he'd been experiencing since his skull connected with the pavement made its presence felt once again.

Wilson took a step back and looked at him. "How are you going to explain all this to Mike?"

As he slid off the gurney, Steve looked down, smiling warmly. "Are you kidding? Compared to what he's going through, this is child's play." He looked up and met Wilson's stare. "We got lucky."


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 36**

Though it was three in the morning and most of the building was quiet, there was quite the little gathering in Homicide. Word of the arrest had spread quickly, yet discreetly, amongst those most interested, and involved, in the phantom investigation.

By the time Wilson delivered Steve to Bryant Street from St. Mary's Emergency, Captain Olsen, Sergeants Norm Haseejian and Dan Healey, Captain Derek Redding from Robbery, and Patrolmen Scott Peters and Ian Johnson, who were the first unit on the scene that night, were present.

They stepped into the bullpen, waving off questions of concern for their well-being as they crossed to the interrogation room and stared through the glass. The two patrolmen were inside: Johnson near the door, Peters in the opposite corner. Handcuffed to heavy metal chairs on the far side of the grey metal table, Vlad and Igor sat sullenly, staring at the tabletop. A clean white bandage was taped to Vlad's right temple; a bruise was developing near Igor's right eye. Neither seemed particularly happy to be there.

Steve's stare penetrated the glass to a pinpoint laser focus on Igor's downturned face; this was the man, he knew, who had come so very close to killing his partner. Subconsciously he flexed his hands, the need to exact some form of retribution almost too strong to contain. The sharp pain stabbing through his right hand only served to deepen the fury seething inside him.

Beside him, Wilson's rage was focused on the older man, the more vicious one, the one who had taken everything, it seemed, not only from his partner but from him as well.

Olsen cleared his throat. He was standing very close to the two junior officers, watching them closely, as were all the others in the room. Everyone knew what Steve and Wilson had been through the last couple of weeks. 'There but for the grace…' had suddenly taken on renewed significance for them all.

"Listen, ah, there's not much we can do until the morning, fellas. They, ah, they don't seem to speak or understand English – though I doubt that very much." The captain's gravelly voice dripped sarcasm. "And they lawyered up, sort of, I guess. Who knows? Russian sure ain't like, you know, French or Spanish, where you can at least understand some of the words!"

Despite everything he was feeling, Steve couldn't resist a slight smile. He glanced at Wilson, who was biting his lips, his eyes dancing.

"Anyway," Olsen continued, getting his outburst under control, "I've got a couple a guys trying to locate a public defender who speaks Russian. Good luck to them, especially at this hour."

Redding took a step toward the window, glaring at the two subdued Russians. "I just talked to O'Brien. He's gonna meet us here at 10. Hopefully we'll've tracked down a Russian-talking PD by then." He glanced over his shoulder at Steve and Wilson. "Not much we can do until then, fellas. I'll get Peters and Johnson to take these two to the cells. Why don't you two head home for a couple of hours, grab some shut-eye and get back here for 10?"

Wilson looked over at Steve; their eyes held for a second or two then they both nodded. "Sounds good, Captain," Wilson said with a mirthless smile. He nodded towards the window. "Just make sure those two bastards don't go anywhere. We're not finished with them yet."

Redding smiled. "Don't worry about that, Bob. Rudy and I'll guarantee ya – you and Steve get first crack at 'em in the morning. You deserve it."

"You got that right," Steve muttered under his breath as he turned away from the window and started across the bullpen to the door.

Haseejian fell into step beside him. The usually jovial sergeant's brow was furrowed. "You sure you're okay, kiddo?" he asked quietly.

Once again, Steve found himself smiling despite the situation. "Yeah, I'm okay, Norm. This is all superficial." He stopped suddenly, a hand on the Armenian's arm, pulling him to a halt. "Listen, ah, I lost track of the victim after I was taken to St. Mary's… do you now what happened to her?"

"Oh, you mean the lady with the mean right hook courtesy of a 6-inch stiletto?" Haseejian's chuckle was contagious and Steve found his smile getting a little wider as he nodded. "They're still checking her out at St. Mary's. Last word is they're gonna keep her overnight, just in case, you know… But, ah, just so you're aware, you guys got there before they had the chance to, ah, you know…." He put a hand on the younger man's forearm and squeezed. "You and Bob, you saved her, Steve… you got there in time…"

Steve dropped his head, the smile disappearing, and he exhaled loudly. "I owe her my life, Norm," he whispered, keeping his head down.

Haseejian watched and waited. When the inspector's head came back up, he smiled warmly. "You did good, kid. You made Mike very proud tonight."

Steve snorted raggedly, dropping his head again. He cleared his throat. "Ah, speaking of Mike, I better get over there, tell him I made it out alive." He chuckled, meeting Haseejian's eyes gratefully. His perfunctory smile disappeared quickly. "Thanks, Norm."

The Armenian grinned. "Anytime, kiddo, anytime."

# # # # #

He heard the front door open and close. He held his breath. The light in the hallway snapped on; a bright glow silhouetted the closed bedroom door. Soft footfalls could be heard mounting the stairs then the doorknob turned and the door opened, flooding the room with light.

He stared at the ceiling, his heart pounding. He felt Irene tighten her grip around his chest. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them again.

The shadowy figure circled the bed to his side, hesitating only slightly before sitting on the edge. The light from the hall illuminated the profile he had been praying he would see again. He tried to smile but found he couldn't; he was almost paralyzed with relief.

Staring into the bright blue eyes that burned into him from the bed, Steve smiled affectionately, then very slowly reached out and laid a hand gently on the older man's chest. "We got 'em," he said softly, hearing the catch of the breath, watching the blue eyes close.

Allowing Mike to get a grip on his emotions, knowing only too well what his closest friend had been and was still going through, he increased the pressure of his hand and waited, smiling.

Mike opened his eyes, blinking quickly, and raised his right hand to touch his partner's face. Even in this dim light he had seen the bandaged cheek. "Are you alright?" came the voice barely above a whisper.

Steve nodded, grinning. Details could wait for later; what was needed right now was reassurance. "I'm fine." He cleared his throat. "Listen, ah, I gotta get back to the Hall tomorrow morning, lots of loose ends to tie up. So I'm gonna crash and try to get a couple hours sleep." He patted Mike's chest gently. "I'll see you tomorrow." Glancing at Irene, who hadn't taken her eyes from him either, he enveloped them both in a wide smile as he got to his feet and crossed slowly to the door, closing it behind him.

She could feel Mike trembling with relief and once more she tightened her hold around his chest. He pulled her closer, not in the least surprised when her hot tears began to soak into his pajama top.

# # # # #

His head down, his smile lingering, Steve shut the bedroom door and turned to head down the hallway when he stopped short. Jeannie was on the landing, staring at him with such a warmly compassionate smile that it almost took his breath away.

When she gasped slightly, seeing the bandaged hand and cheek, he raised his left hand quickly to shush her. "I'm okay," he whispered. "Really." He pulled her further down the hall so his voice wouldn't be heard through the master bedroom door.

"You don't look okay," she countered, equally softly, when they stopped outside her bedroom door.

"This is superficial, really, my hand isn't broken."

"Why is there blood on the back of your shirt then?" Her tone left no doubt that she needed an answer.

He sighed heavily, knowing he had to come clean. He shrugged slightly. "They had to put five stitches in my back – I fell on a beer bottle."

She winced, trying to turn him around. He resisted, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm fine, I just want to go to bed for a couple of hours, okay?" He stared at her, daring her to contradict him.

After several seconds of a silent stand-off, she backed down with an annoyed exhale. "All right… what time do you want to get up?" Her fists had found their way to her hips.

His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because I'll wake you. The way you look right now, you'll probably sleep through your alarm."

He eyed her silently for a couple of beats. "You're probably right… Nine?"

Still pretending to be annoyed, she nodded, frowning. "Then nine it is." She turned towards the stairs then stopped, looking back. Her artificially stern look vanished. "I don't think he got any sleep at all tonight. He was worried about you," she said softly before she headed down the stairs.

He stood stock-still for several long seconds, his stare unfocused, his thoughts far away, then he turned the doorknob and entered the bedroom.

# # # # #

The featherlight touch on his bare arm brought him gradually to wakefulness. He was lying facedown on a bed, it seemed, in a room that was lit with the spill from the open door. For a few seemingly long seconds he had no idea where he was. He slowly tried to push himself up but froze with a moan; every part of his body was aching, or so it felt. Sluggishly, he became aware of the other presence in the room. He managed to raise his head and look over his shoulder.

A warmly concerned smile creasing her comely young features, Jeannie Stone was standing beside the bed. She leaned closer and whispered, "It's nine. You wanted me to wake you up so you could get to Bryant by ten, remember?"

Expressionless while the words soaked into his muddled brain, Steve attempted a nod and a mirthless smile. "Right," he breathed softly as memories of the previous night started drifting back.

Her grin got wider but her voice stayed quiet. "I have bacon and eggs cooking and the coffee's ready. Get dressed and come down when you're ready." She began to straighten up then stopped. "Oh, and try not to make too much noise," she chuckled softly as she disappeared from sight, crossing the room and descending the stairs.

Confused, he shook his head slightly before putting it back down on the bed, the temptation not to move almost overwhelming. But as more and more snippets of memory fused together in his disoriented brain, he realized his task was only half done. The score he needed to settle was far from complete; he knew couldn't go on with his life until this entire horrific episode was over and done.

Taking stock of his aching body, remembering the stitches in his back and right cheek and the cracked bone in his hand, he gingerly pushed himself upright, draping his legs over the side of the bed to sit on the edge. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his left hand over his face; it hadn't been near enough sleep but it had been better than nothing.

His hand found its way to the back of his neck and he rubbed the nape, then lightly touched the back of his head. It was tender, another souvenir from the previous night's activity, if he remembered correctly, and he was pretty sure he did.

He had just put both hands on the bed to push himself to his feet when he saw him. Covered by a thick wool blanket, Mike was sound asleep in the armchair he had pulled away from Jeannie's vanity and closer to the bed. Steve sat back, covering his mouth with his hand as he stared at his partner, suddenly unable to move.

Then, taking a deep breath and with a wry, self-conscious smile, he pushed himself up and quietly crossed to the closet and the dresser. Removing the clothes he needed, and with a quick, fond backward glance, he ducked into the bathroom across the hall.

Emerging a short time later, shaved, showered and wearing fresh clothes, he stepped softly back into the bedroom. Mike hadn't moved. He crossed to the far side of the bed and sat, immobile, staring at the older man.

Eventually he got slowly to his feet and took a step towards the armchair. He reached out to touch his best friend's shoulder, to wake him up; the need to talk, to hear that comfortingly familiar voice was almost overpowering. But his hand froze in midair then dropped to his side.

Biting his bottom lip, smiling affectionately, he tiptoed out into the hallway and quietly closed the bedroom door behind him.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 37**

"So, fingerprints got us nowhere, surprise surprise," Robbery Captain Derek Redding chuckled with an ironic smile as he dropped the file folder onto the desk in the centre of the large office. The same group of detectives from the previous night was assembled and they had been joined by Assistant D.A. Gerry O'Brien and Vice Sergeant Boris Sokolov.

"But on the bright side, we found a Russian-speaking PD," Olsen offered, nodding towards the glass-walled interview room opposite them. "On such short notice, we only have one, so our lovely… guests… will have to share until we can scrape up another one."

Amid the dry, humourless chuckles, Steve and Wilson glanced over; both Vlad and Igor were deep in conversation with a heavyset, grey-haired older man who was furiously taking notes.

"Just so you know," Olsen continued, directing his comments at Steve and Wilson, "as far as anyone is aware, the Feds are still in the dark about what's going on here, but who knows how long that's gonna last. So we're gonna have to move fast."

"We've got 'em dead to rights, fellas," O'Brien took over, "for the assault last night and resisting arrest, but connecting them to what happened to Irene and Mike, and to the other assaults and rapes is gonna be hard unless you can get one of them to turn."

Wilson glanced over his shoulder again at the handcuffed Russians. "I think Igor'll crack if we go at him just right." Steve nodded.

O'Brien inclined his head with a frown. "Igor? You mean to _do_ have their names?"

Steve was the first to laugh, everyone else joining in quickly. "Ah, no, um, I guess I spent too much time watching the Watergate hearings. Bob and I just started calling them _Vlad_ and _Igor_ for brevity's sake… sort of like Deep Throat." He cleared his own throat self-consciously and O'Brien nodded approvingly with a dry chuckle.

"So, anyway," Olsen jumped in, trying to move things along, "they're probably going to clam up and they probably think, and rightly so I would have to agree, that the longer they stall, the more chance there is that the Feds'll show up and whisk them away. So that's the reason I asked Boris to join us."

The older, portly, florid-faced sergeant took a step forward and shook hands with Wilson. "How ya doin', fellas? I'm just gonna stand in the corner and make sure that that mouthpiece of theirs is accurately translating everything they say." He reached for Steve's hand but the younger man raised his bandaged appendage and both men chuckled.

"Our friend Vlad in there really, really wanted to get my gun last night."

"I'm sure as hell glad he didn't," Olsen said solemnly as he led the way across the tile floor towards the interrogation room. He turned and faced the younger men. "Bob, Steve… they're all yours. Don't worry, this entire office is off-limits today, and Dan's gonna hang out in the lobby just in case our friends from Quantico show up. Fortunately, they're easy to spot," he added dryly, and everyone laughed.

His face sternly set, Wilson glanced once at his younger partner before taking a step forward and opening the interrogation room door. He looked quickly at the uniformed patrolman standing beside the door and nodded. Waiting till Steve and Sokolov had entered the room, the patrolman left, closing the door behind him.

The attorney stood up and held out his hand. "Gentlemen, Barry Green, I'm representing both Mister… ah…" He flustered somewhat and stopped talking, his eyes shifting nervously from one cop to the other. Sokolov had moved to the corner of the room behind the table; he looked back at Wilson and Steve with a bemused smile then leaned against the wall.

Wilson, slowly taking the proffered hand and staring unflinchingly into the lawyer's now confused eyes, raised his brows in anticipation and closed his hand firmly. Green winced. Either the lawyer didn't know his clients names or he did and was reluctant to give the cops this new piece of information; Wilson couldn't tell. He smiled coldly. "Sergeant Robert Wilson."

Nodding nervously, Green turned his grey eyes towards Steve, who just held up his bandaged hand once again and smirked before pulling out a chair and dropping into it. "Inspector Steve Keller," he said flatly. Any remaining vestiges of civility disappeared from his face as he stared across the table at Igor, who shot a defiant look at him then dropped his head and swallowed anxiously.

Vlad, who had been looking at his colleague with a cold grin, snorted mirthlessly in what seemed like angry disappointment, then shook his head, allowing his eyes to slowly refocus on Steve, who met the cold blue stare with obstinance. " _Kak eto ruka_?" The voice was as harsh and cold as the face.

Green, who had sat and was gazing at the pad on the table in front of him, looked up towards Steve. "He asked how your hand is?"

Steve stared unblinkingly at the Russian; in his peripheral vision, could see Sokolov nod slightly. With the slightest trace of a condescending smile, he answered coolly, "Tell him it's fine."

Green's eyes flicked towards Vlad. " _Vse normal'no."_

Steve saw Sokolov nod again.

Looking up from his perusal of the pad once again, smiling superciliously, Green laced his fingers and placed his hands on the table in front of him. "So, what can we do for you gentlemen?"

With a long-suffering smile, and clearing his throat, Wilson leaned forward. "Well, your clients can start by telling us their names." His stare slid from Green's smiling face to Vlad, who glared back boldly, to Igor, who grunted quietly and looked down.

Green's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, um, you mean you don't have my clients names?" His surprise was totally bogus; Wilson continued to stare as Steve snorted in amusement and looked up, rolling his eyes and leaning back in the metal chair, crossing his arms. His heavy sigh said it all; it was going to be a long day…

"They, ah, they weren't carrying any I.D. last night when my partner and I… interrupted their assault and rape of that young woman… and they weren't very… how shall I say... forthcoming after that." Wilson's tone was pleasant and his expression was neutral but there was no mistaking the steel behind the words.

Green tilted his head and shrugged. "Well, then, I'm afraid I can't be of much help in that regard… attorney-client privilege and all that. And, well, to be perfectly honest, I can't even be sure if I have their god-given names either." His smile was hollow.

"Well, then, you can tell ol' Vlad and Igor here that whether they give us their names or not, they're facing charges of rape, assault, resisting arrest and assault on a police officer." Steve had leaned forward and put his forearms on the table, his stony-eyed stare sliding from one sullen defendant to the other.

At the mention of the two familiar names, their heads had come up slightly and brows had furrowed but neither said anything.

The lawyer cleared his throat. "Well, all that being said, it seems these are pretty cut-and-dried charges. I would've thought that we'd be at an arraignment this morning and not sitting here, in this…cozy little room, talking to you." He sat back and folded his arms. When neither detective proved expansive, he uncrossed his arms and shrugged. "Am I being too subtle here? I'm asking if you have other charges you haven't informed me about."

Wilson leaned forward and smiled dispassionately. "We believe your… clients are responsible for the assaults and rapes of at least five other women, and the assault and rape of a police inspector and the attempted murder of a police lieutenant."

Three pairs of eyes in the room, and several more pairs staring through the glass from the outer office, were focused on the two Russians for the slightly movement, the merest indication that they understood anything that they had just heard.

They didn't make a move.

Green, however, sat back quickly, his eyes widening. "Um, okay, this is all news to me."

"Tell them," Steve ordered with a chilly half-smile.

"What?"

"We brought you in because you speak their language. Tell them."

"Oh, umh, yes, of course." Clearing his throat, he leaned back even further so he could see both his clients peripherally. He began to speak, rapidly and smoothly; Sokolov straightened up again.

Before Green had finished talking, both Vlad and Igor had reacted like they had just been told they were wearing tutus - shaking their heads as they laughed, smirking as they eyed both detectives with disdain. Snorting dismissively, Vlad responded, talking to Green but keeping his eyes on the two men across the table.

When he finished talking, Green leaned forward and smiled. "He says it wasn't them, that they have no idea what you're talking about. And that if you did have any evidence, you would have arrested them for that already."

Steve glanced up at Sokolov. He nodded.

Wilson smiled icily, staring at Vlad, who was grinning callously back at him. "I know you did it," he growled.

Green looked at the sergeant. "Do you want me to translate that?"

"Don't bother," Wilson snarled. "I have a feeling he knows exactly what I mean."

He felt Steve lean forward beside him, and he knew that the younger man had come to the same conclusion that he had. They had nothing to lose. It would only be a matter of time until the FBI got wind of what had happened, and no matter how good Gerry O'Brien and the D.A.'s office were at their jobs, the Feds would take over, and Vlad, for sure, and possibly Igor - for they still had no idea who he was - would be taken from their custody.

Steve dead stare slid from the man opposite him, across Green, who was frowning in confusion, and settled on Vlad. He smiled. "We may not know your name, but we sure as hell know who you are."

The attorney's grey eyes snapped from Steve to Vlad and back again.

"Tell him," Steve ordered once again and Green, keeping his eyes on the cop, did so.

When he finished, Steve continued, "We know you're from New York… Brighton Beach." Vlad flinched almost imperceptibly; everyone tensed. Even Sokolov took a step closer. Green interpreted.

"You were part of the Russian mafia back there. But you turned on them, didn't you? You turned state's witness. You ratted on your friends, on your colleagues." Steve paused, allowing Green to catch up. Vlad's eyes bored into his and he stared back.

"The FBI had to get your ass out of town, didn't they? Or Evsei Argon would've put a bullet in your head, wouldn't he?"

At the mention of the name of the 'godfather' of the New York Russian mob, Vlad's face lost all its colour and he swallowed involuntarily. Everyone noticed. Steve smiled.

Green's voice was soft as he continued to translate, his eyes snapping back and forth between the two. When he finished, Vlad smiled calculatingly and sat back with a studied insolence. He said something to Green.

The lawyer swallowed nervously. "He says you've got the wrong man."

"Bullshit," Wilson said coldly. Vlad's eyes slid in the sergeant's direction and he smirked.

Nobody moved. They heard a commotion in the outer office; there was a quick rap on the door and it opened. Everybody looked up.

Captain Rudy Olsen leaned into the room; he was agitated and he spoke quickly. "Dan just called from the lobby. The Feds are in the building. They just bulled their way past the front desk and they're on their way up to Vice. Let's get these guys out of here, get 'em up to the cells."

Steve got to his feet; he glanced out into the office. O'Brien was on the phone, looking frustrated; Haseejian and Redding were standing anxiously near the outer door.

Green stood up. "What the hell's going on here?" he demanded.

"We're re-locating your clients," Olsen snapped at him. He looked at the two Russians. "On your feet!"

Steve started to cross around the table towards Igor. Wilson hadn't moved; when Olsen had started talking, he had looked back at Vlad and his eyes hadn't left him since.

Steve put a hand on Igor's arm and began to pull him up. Sokolov moved towards Vlad.

Then, before anybody could react, Wilson launched himself over the table. The full force of his weight carried him straight at Vlad, his outstretched hands driving into the Russian's shoulders and catapulting him backwards in the chair. The momentum propelled them both into the wall with tremendous force, the back of Vlad's head slamming into the plaster with a sickening thud. Wilson pulled the limp body away from the wall and slammed the Russian's head against the floor.

Suddenly there was blood everywhere.


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 38**

There was a split second of stunned silence, no one moving except the man on the floor, kneeling over the slack body of the Russian rapist. Bob Wilson, his fingers locked onto the black wool of the navy blue pea jacket, raised the limp shoulders and slammed Vlad's lolling head onto the tile floor once again. "You son of a bitch!" he growled as the blood pool on the floor grew larger.

"Bob!" Steve shouted, trying to scramble past Igor, who was still in his chair. Green, who had thrown himself out of the way when Wilson hurdled the table, was in his way, trying to flatten himself against the wall behind Igor.

With a nimbleness surprising for his size, Sokolov had reached for Wilson's shoulders and was trying to pull him away; the Robbery sergeant was stronger. Olsen had crossed from the door and had just grabbed Wilson's arm when he was pushed aside by Redding and Haseejian, who had sprinted from the far side of the outer office. Pushing the table out of the way, but into Steve's path, Redding stepped over the unmoving body as he and Haseejian grabbed Wilson's arms and pulled him up, dragging him towards the door.

His eyes blazing, Wilson looked frantically up at Olsen. "Get him out of here!" he yelled, jerking his head in Steve's direction. "Get him out of here!"

Confused, Olsen stared at Wilson as he was hauled into the outer office then turned his furrowed brow in Steve's direction. The Homicide inspector had pushed the table out of the way and was bending over Vlad. Suddenly realizing what Wilson meant, Olsen grabbed Sokolov's arm to get his attention. "Boris," he said rapidly, "get Steve out of here. Take him to my office, now!"

Sokolov nodded quickly and reached across the prone body, catching Steve's elbow. The younger man shook his head and pulled out of the grasp. "I'm not going anywhere, Rudy!"

"Steve, the Feds are going to be up here any second, we're not going to be able to keep this quiet. Go – now!"

Sokolov took a step towards the door; the inspector continued to stand his ground. "Rudy…"

His face a mask of anguish and regret, Olsen looked from Vlad's inert form to his young charge. He sighed heavily. "Get out of here, Steve, I don't want you here for this." His tone was soft and defeated.

Steve looked from Olsen to the body on the floor, turned quietly and left the room, Sokolov close behind him, a hand gently on the younger man's back. As Steve strode through the large office, he stared at Wilson, who was slumped in an office chair, head down, hands at his sides. Haseejian and Redding were standing over him; he didn't look up.

"Call an ambulance!" Olsen's voice cut through the eerie silence as Steve and Sokolov stepped through the outer office door into the almost deserted corridor. As if in a trance, Steve began to follow Sokolov down the hall. At the far end, the elevators doors opened and two men in dark blue suits stepped out.

"Let's take the stairs," Sokolov suggested quietly and they casually crossed the hallway to the staircase door. They started up, looking back through the frosted glass as the dark shadows walked by. "They might not be the Feds but I don't want to take that chance, do you?" the Vice sergeant asked semi-rhetorically. Steve shook his head.

# # # # #

"Norm, get him out of here!" Olsen yelled from the inner office door, nodding at Igor, who was still sitting in the metal chair, trembling, his eyes having never left the still body of his confederate and the blood on the wall and the floor.

With a worried glance at the unresponsive Wilson, Haseejian crossed to the inner office, past Olsen, who was now kneeling over Vlad, around the table, and pulled the compliant Igor to his feet, propelling him out the door. Green, who was still standing with his back against the wall, his eyes wide and his mouth open, didn't move; Olsen chose to ignore him.

"Take him up to the cells and then get back here," Olsen told the retreating Homicide sergeant as Redding approached him.

"An ambulance is on the way. Is he dead?" the Robbery captain asked dispassionately.

Olsen sat back on his heels and shook his head. "Nah, there's still a pulse, but I don't know for how long." He got to his feet with a groan, then shook his head angrily, his hands on his hips. "God damn it, I should've known something like this would happen."

Nodding grimly, Redding gestured with his chin towards the petrified lawyer. "What do you want to do with him?"

Olsen eyed Green with detachment for several seconds. "He doesn't go anywhere till we figure out what's going to happen. Get a uniform in here and have him taken to your office where he can cool his heels. Tell the unie to stay with him." He looked into the outer office and sighed. "Then I want you to take Bob up to Homicide. Put him in Mike's office. Hopefully nobody will be looking for him up there."

Redding nodded. "What are –?"

"I'll wait here for the ambulance," Olsen cut him off. "I'll join you when I can. Do me a favor when you get him up to Homicide, will ya? Call for a PBA rep and lawyer?"

"You got it," the Robbery captain said with a sad sigh. He stared at his sergeant, collapsed in the chair, staring expressionlessly at the floor… a man defeated. "Damn it, I never expected anything like that from Bob… I've known him for years…"

Silently, Olsen nodded slowly. "I guess it's true that we all have a breaking point."

Exhaling loudly, Redding slapped his colleague lightly on the shoulder and stepped towards the office door. "I'll track down a unie."

Olsen worried eyes travelled from the broken and demoralized sergeant to the unconscious man on the floor. An already bad situation had just gotten so much worse.

# # # # #

Steve and Sokolov had been waiting in the captain's office for almost half an hour before Olsen opened the door to find them both sitting silently in his guest chairs, staring at the floor. Without a word he crossed to his desk chair and sat, then looked up to meet their expectant eyes.

"Vlad, as you call him, is still alive. He's on his way to the hospital but from what I could get out of the ambulance attendants, he didn't look too good."

"Where's Bob?" Steve asked quietly, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped.

"Derek and Norm took him to Homicide."

"Have the Feds shown up yet?"

Closing his eyes briefly, Olsen nodded. "They showed up just as the ambulance was leaving. So did the Chief. The proverbial shit is going to hit the fan very soon, but I told Condon I needed to go to my office for a few minutes, and then I'm gonna meet with him, alone, and let him know everything that's going on."

Alarmed, Steve straightened up. "Everything?" There was concern, and a touch of fear, in his voice.

Olsen smiled slightly and held up a hand. "Don't worry, Condon's one of the good guys, he'll understand. And remember, Steve, you and Bob didn't do anything illegal here… you just made the decision to keep the Feds out of the loop. And while that might be, how shall we say, professionally not kosher, it's definitely not illegal.

"Besides, John likes Mike a lot and I'm sure he's as pissed as the rest of us with what went down with Mike and Irene… and that'll mean a great deal. _And_ ," Olsen smiled briefly again, "there's not a lot of love lost between John Condon and the Feds." His raised eyebrows told Steve and Sokolov he wasn't going to get into details; the Vice sergeant nodded sagely and Steve got the impression that he needed no further explanation anyway.

Taking a deep breath, Olsen exhaled loudly as he got to his feet. "So, what's going to happen right now is, you two are going to cool your heels in here for another fifteen minutes, then I want you both in Homicide. I am going to go meet with Condon and I'll join you there as soon as I can. Healey has taken the Feds down to the cafeteria – no doubt kicking and screaming," he smiled briefly again, allowing himself a slight chuckle, "and they'll stay there until we want to see them. They are, after all, on our premises and in our jurisdiction."

He looked at the younger man before him. "Steve, from now on, until and unless I say differently, you are just one of the cops investigating what happened in that interrogation room today, you understand?"

Steve frowned. "But Rudy…?"

"No buts, Steve, this is how it's going to go down. Bob is finished. No amount of fast talking or slight of hand or anything else on our part is going to change what happened today. There are just too many witnesses, not that we'd want to sweep it under the rug in the first place." Olsen took a deep breath and looked down. "His career is over, he's going to be arrested… and he'll be damn lucky if he doesn't spend time behind bars."

Steve rubbed his hands over his face, taking a deep, steadying breath; he had known all this from the second Wilson had thrown himself over the table. But hearing the words aloud removed any last vestige that this was all just one horrible nightmare.

Sighing heavily, Olsen said kindly, "He doesn't want you involved in any of this, Steve. He wants to make sure you're okay. And I think we should respect his wishes." He stared into the younger man's troubled green eyes. "Don't you?"

Steve closed his eyes. He thought back to everything he and Wilson had been through the past couple of weeks, the fear for their colleagues, the investigation, the hunt… and how it had all just crumbled into dust in the blink of an eye. How could he not have foreseen what had happened? How could he have so misread his colleague?

"Don't you?" Olsen asked again softly.

Steve opened his eyes and looked at his boss; he smiled slightly and nodded. "But what about Igor… and that lawyer? They know I was involved…" He shrugged helplessly.

Olsen nodded. "Don't worry about that… okay? Leave that to the guys who've been dragging their feet on all of this from the beginning… the guys that were told to look the other way and did… the guys who owe you…"

Steve stared into the captain's unblinking eyes. A flood of emotions, from fear to relief to anger to reluctant acceptance, washed over him and he caught his breath. He closed his eyes and nodded again.

Olsen smiled gently, pride in his expression. Then he sighed and looked at both his colleagues. "Gentlemen, this is going to be one hell of a long and depressing day."

# # # # #

Steve was sitting on the end of his desk, staring through the glass door of his partner's office. Bob Wilson was sitting in Mike's chair, staring unfocused at the desktop, an untouched cup of coffee on the desk before him. Captain Redding was standing in the far corner, leaning against the wall, his eyes on the back of his sergeant's head. The sadness and disappointment in his eyes was impossible to miss.

Steve heard the door behind him open. Expecting Olsen, he turned his head casually then got quickly to his feet. Irene was preceding Mike through the anteroom and into the bullpen. As she moved deeper into the room, her distraught eyes found her partner in the small interior office and she froze.

Mike, who had kept his gaze on her, stopped behind Irene and laid a hand gently on her shoulder. Without looking, she raised a hand and laid it over his, squeezing, then she crossed the few feet to the office door and opened it. Derek Redding looked up, surprise flashing across his face when he saw her; her eyes were only for Wilson, who still hadn't moved. Glancing between his two officers, Redding circled the desk, past Irene and out the door, closing it quietly behind him.

Steve took a step closer to Mike. He couldn't resist a small smile, seeing his fedora-clad partner back in the office.

The older man glanced at him, returning the faint, sad smile then looked back towards Irene and Wilson. He swallowed. "Norm called me," he said quietly. From the corner of his eye he saw Steve nod slightly, and felt a light, comforting touch on his back.

In the glass-walled inner office, Wilson finally looked up. If he was surprised to see Irene standing there, he didn't show it. Slowly, she crossed around the desk towards him then reached out and, placing her hands lovingly on the back of his head, pulled him towards her to hold him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight as she stroked his hair, squeezing her eyes shut as the tears began to fall.


	40. Chapter 40

**My continuing thanks to all those who read, and for those who review, many thanks for taking the time and making the effort. It is my appreciated to have feedback, believe me.**

 **As for the title, a few people have asked when it is going to become clear. Have patience, but know that I have already dropped a clue about the meaning of the title very early in the story. It will become crystal clear in the final chapter, but until then, those who wish, put on your detective fedoras and give it a try!**

 **Chapter 39**

ADA Gerry O'Brien re-entered the unnaturally quiet office; at the height of the drama and confusion, he had left to make a discreet phone call to his boss, to apprise the District Attorney of the potentially explosive situation unfolding at the Hall of Justice. He wanted to make sure that whatever decisions he had to make in the next few hours would be with done the full knowledge and consent of the DA's office.

He stopped short just inside the entrance; things had definitely changed in the time he had been otherwise engaged. A uniformed officer was standing near the empty interrogation room door.

"Where is everybody?" O'Brien asked, looking around.

"Sergeant Wilson was taken up to Homicide, I believe Captain Olsen is in his office with Inspector Keller and Sergeant Sokolov, the… ah… _victim_ is on his way to The General, and the other suspect has been transferred to the cells," the patrolman told him.

Staring at the streak of blood on the wall and the pool on the floor, O'Brien nodded grimly. "Thanks," he muttered under his breath as he turned and crossed the tile floor of the empty, haunted room.

# # # # #

Mike was sitting on the end of Steve's desk; his hat and jacket were still on, his clasped hands in his lap. He was staring expressionlessly into his own office.

Irene had pulled the guest chair around the desk, so that she and her partner were now sitting face to face. She held his hands in hers and they were both leaning forward, their heads close together. They had been talking quietly for a long time.

Steve, who had been on Haseejian's phone, hung up and walked slowly back to his own desk. He glanced towards the inner office then looked at his unmoving partner. He quietly hoisted himself up onto desk beside the older man, settling in so they were shoulder to shoulder. He studied his partner's profile, then asked gently, "How are you doing?"

The familiar face softened and he smiled slightly. "I've been better."

Steve chuckled kindly. "I meant your head." He kept his voice low.

"Oh," Mike snorted with a gentle laugh, "that. I have a headache, but what else is new? I seem to have them all the time now."

"You want to sit in my chair; it might be easier on you."

"No, I'm okay, thanks."

Steve nodded. "Your hat doesn't hurt the, ah, the cut?"

Mike looked at him, slightly confused, then his face brightened and he took the fedora off, turning the back of his head towards his young friend. There was a rectangular piece of gauze taped to the hair that was still growing in. "Jeannie put this on so the sweatband didn't rub against it. Smart, hunh?" he asked rhetorically as he looked at the younger man again and put the hat back on his head. He turned towards the office once more and his smile disappeared.

Steve followed Mike's look. After several seconds, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. How had he missed it? How had he missed the rage building up inside Bob Wilson? He would have spotted it in Mike in a heartbeat. He glanced once more at the man beside him and his throat tightened. Never in his life had he been able to read another human being as easily as he could read the man beside him; it both awed and frightened him.

Almost involuntarily he reached up and put a hand on his partner's shoulder; he knew they both needed the contact now, the solace of familiarity. He felt and heard Mike take a deep breath and lean into him a little more, a silent acceptance of the encouragement and understanding wordlessly offered.

The door behind them opened and Steve turned to look. A scowling Captain Olsen was coming through the anteroom, glancing around the bullpen as he crossed slowly to the centre of the room. He couldn't resist a small smile when he realized that his senior homicide detective was present. He stopped beside the inspector's desk as both his officers slid off the desk to stand. "Mike," he nodded in greeting, trying to keep the joy out of his voice in deference to the solemnity of the occasion. "It's good to see you. How're you feeling?"

Mike looked at his superior officer and smiled. "Hi, Rudy," he replied almost conversationally. "I'm doing okay, thanks." He looked back towards his own office and the older man followed the gaze. He heard Olsen sigh heavily and clear his throat.

"Listen, ah," the Captain began, slowly and quietly, "I just got a call from the hospital. The guy you call Vlad," he said, looking briefly at Steve and nodding, "he, ah, he didn't make it. He died in the ambulance."

Mike closed his eyes, dropping his head, then opened them and looked at his partner.

"Damn it," Steve breathed angrily, shuffling where he stood. A hand came up to rub across his forehead and through his hair.

"Listen, ah," Olsen continued quietly, "I've already talked to Gerry and he's says they're gonna charge Bob with manslaughter instead of murder, but still…" He took a deep breath and let it out in an angry rush. "But right now we have to start the process."

Captain Redding, who was hovering on the periphery of their conversation, stepped forward. "Do you want me to do it, Rudy?" he asked gently, nodding towards the inner office.

Olsen looked to him appreciatively. "Would you mind, Derek?"

The Robbery captain shook his head with a sad smile. "Not at all," he said softly. "It, ah, it's kind of… appropriate's not the right word, but seeing as this is about my own people…" He left the rest hang with a defeated shrug. Then, with a sad but determined smile, he crossed the short distance to the glass door and knocked discreetly. Both Irene and Bob looked towards the sound. Redding opened the door and took a step inside.

Steve glanced at his partner. Mike's unblinking stare was focused on Irene. He could hear Redding's voice faintly. "Robert Wilson, you are under arrest for the murder of John Doe…"

Steve looked sharply at Rudy, who glanced over guiltily. "We still haven't got a name and those bastards from the Bureau aren't cooperating." He paused and a mirthless smile managed to emerge. "Of course, I haven't told them their witness, or whoever he is, is dead yet… so who knows? That may loosen their tongues, although I wouldn't count on it."

In the small, glassed-walled office, Redding had finished reading Wilson his rights, and was now escorting the shell-shocked sergeant from of the room. Professional courtesy dictated that Wilson need not be handcuffed and Redding had no problem with that.

As the Robbery sergeant was led across the room, he stopped briefly at Steve's desk, his eyes first meeting Mike's with a warm smile then slid toward Steve's. His brow furrowed, the smile melted away and he closed his eyes, his entire body sagging. He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered, opening his eyes and staring at the young homicide inspector.

Steve smiled sadly and nodded.

Dropping his head, Wilson followed Redding to the door and out into the corridor.

Mike looked sideways at his partner; neither said anything.

Irene had slowly followed Wilson and Redding out of the office and now stood in front of Mike. He turned wordlessly to look at her. She stared up into his expressionless face then, oblivious to the others in the room, reached up and put her hands on the back of his neck to pull him forward into a hug, kissing his cheek then burying her face against his shoulder. He could feel her slight body shuddering in his arms.

Irene dug her fingers into Mike's back, needing his strength and love and constancy more right in this moment than she ever had before. Her world had become a gaping maw of pain and tragedy and she wasn't sure she could survive it; she needed this man in her life more than ever, she thought.

Steve watched silently, fighting the hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to reach out and embrace them both.

Suddenly Irene felt Mike's knees buckle slightly and her grip on him tightened; she pulled her head back quickly and looked at his face. Steve had noticed the unexpected weakness and reached out to grab his partner's arm and steady him.

"Are you all right?" Irene asked breathlessly, her hands moving swiftly to the sides of his face, holding him and staring into his eyes.

Mike blinked slowly and tried to smile. He chuckled unsteadily. "I just got a… a little dizzy…" he said uncertainly.

"Sit down," she urged, pushing him back down onto the desk as Steve took a step closer, frowning. She glanced up at him anxiously.

"Look, ah," Steve said, his eyes briefly flicking towards Irene then back to his partner, "Irene, why don't you take Mike home?" He looked at her again and smiled encouragingly, "I've got this. I'll be here for Bob, don't worry about him, okay?"

Irene, who was staring at Mike's downturned head, looked up at the young man and smiled gratefully. She nodded. "I'll do that..." She took her hands off Mike's arms and wrapped them around Steve, holding him close as she took a deep, unsteady breath. As she let him go, she whispered, her voice shaking, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he whispered back then turned his attention to his partner. He put a hand on Mike's arm and squeezed. "You okay to get yourself to the car?"

Mike looked up and smiled optimistically. "You bet. Don't worry about me." With Irene holding one arm and Steve the other, he got to his feet. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. "See, I'm fine."

Irene, her worried eyes sliding from Mike to Steve and back, said quietly, "You're still going home." She turned to Steve. "Bob really needs a friend right now –"

"Don't worry," Steve cut her off with a quick smile and a gentle hand on her arm. "We've been in this together for awhile… I'm not gonna just walk away from him now."

She smiled warmly at him, her eyes brightening. "Thank you," she breathed, touching his arm, her bottom lip trembling. She slipped her arm around Mike's and started to walk with him across the tile floor of the bullpen.

Steve squeezed Mike's shoulder as the older man walked past him, then stood silently as he watched the heartbroken couple disappear through the office door. He turned to look at Olsen, both of them sighing sadly.

"So, what do we do now?" Steve asked quietly.

Olsen snorted unhappily. "Well, I guess I gotta go down to the cafeteria and tell our friends from the Bureau that their witness is deceased. Oh joy…"

"Do you have to tell them now?"

"Well, what good would putting it off do? They're going to have to know eventually. It's a pretty big secret to keep, don't you think?"

The outer door opened abruptly and two tall men in black suits charged into the room, followed by a flustered and obviously angry Sergeant Dan Healey. The homicide detective spotted his captain and shrugged, his eyebrow raised, as he gestured in futility at the federal agents bearing down on the older man.

The G-men had pulled their I.D. cards and held them up. "Special Agent Charles Newman. This is Special Agent Mark Radcliffe. Where is he?" the first one said gruffly.

Olsen stood his ground as the two larger men loomed over him, and he casually, almost audaciously, studied each credential with exaggerated care. Steve shifted position, turning away briefly to swallow a smile.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" the police captain finally asked, looking up at them innocently.

With an annoyed glance at his partner, Newman snorted then said with restraint, "We just heard that our witness is dead. Is that true?"

Olsen's eyes slid past Newman to Healey, who shrugged again.

"Yes," Olsen said firmly, looking the agent straight in the eye, "yes, that's true. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital."

Newman's eyes widened in alarm and he almost howled in rage, turning sharply to look at his partner, who jerked violently, stamping the floor.

"What do you mean, he's dead?" Newman snarled as he faced Olsen again, leaning forward threatening. "He's part of an on-going investigation we have looking into the Russian mobs in New York. He's already testified twice and he's going back to New York in a month to testify again. If he's dead, then everything we've been working for on this case is null and void…"

Olsen stood silently while the tirade washed over him then said simply and quietly, "Well, he's dead so you better start thinking about some other way to make your case."

"Some other way?" Radcliffe said slowly, his voice low and almost threatening. "You're joking, right? _Some… other… way?"_

Olsen took a deep, unhurried breath and stared at Radcliffe coldly. Then he looked around the office. Haseejian and Sokolov had slipped in after the FBI agents; Olsen's gaze passed over them, Healey and Steve then settled back on Radcliffe, ignoring the still smoldering Newman.

"Gentlemen, we obviously have a lot to discuss. Please," he said graciously, taking a step back and gesturing towards Mike's office.

Newman and Radcliffe glanced at each other and then back to the SFPD captain. With an almost dismissive grunt, Newman started towards the small room, Radcliffe on his heels. As they passed, Olsen turned to his men and smiled, then followed the two agents into the office and closed the door.


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 40**

Gerry O'Brien entered the Homicide office in a bit of a rush but pulled himself up short. The room was unusually quiet, though it wasn't empty; four chairs were arranged in a semi-circle near the centre desk, their occupants facing the inner office. Four pairs of eyes turned unhurriedly in his direction.

"Where the hell did you get to?" Haseejian asked, his eyebrows raised. But there was no humour in the normally sarcastic tone.

O'Brien nodded at the others before turning his attention to the Armenian sergeant. "I, ah, had a few things to discuss with my boss. Who are they?" he asked, nodding towards the two FBI agents conversing with Olsen in Mike's office.

"The Feds," Steve said simply, turning back to continue his vigil.

"Unh-hunh," O'Brien acknowledged with a vague nod. "Where do they get those guys? Central casting?"

The four SFPD officers chuckled in agreement.

O'Brien looked around the otherwise empty office. "Where's Wilson?"

"Derek read him his rights then took him down to booking," Healey explained.

Steve looked at O'Brien again. "Rudy said you told him he'd be charged with manslaughter. Is that right?"

The ADA nodded soberly. "Yeah. And Ferdon agrees. We're gonna let him go tonight, ROR, and arraign him sometime late tomorrow."

Steve, who had started to look at the Feds and Olsen again, snapped back towards the ADA. "No, Gerry, don't," he said quickly, an unexpected trace of anxiety in his voice. Everyone stared at him in concern, waiting for the explanation. He took a deep breath, his eyes briefly meeting all the others, before he exhaled loudly and said, "Look, I could be wrong about this, but I don't think Bob should be on his own tonight. I think…" He sighed and dropped his head briefly. "I think someone has to keep an eye on him… for tonight, anyway…"

He looked down, angry at himself for giving voice to his concerns but he also knew if he didn't, and something happened, he would never forgive himself.

"Steve's right," Healey said softly, looking up at O'Brien and nodding. Haseejian and Sokolov were bobbing their heads slightly as well.

His face grimly set, O'Brien looked from one detective to the other then nodded as well. "Good, ah, good point, Steve…" He looked back up at inner office. "It looks like they're going to be at it for awhile yet… I'll go down and talk to Wilson and Redding and let them know what the D.A.'s office is thinking. Listen, ah, if Rudy gets finished with those, uh… the FBI agents… before I get back, tell him to hang around, will ya? I want to talk to him."

"We will," Haseejian said with a quiet snort, "but it doesn't look like they're gonna wrap this up anytime soon."

"Yeah, lucky Rudy," O'Brien said with a dry chuckle as he turned and left the room.

# # # # #

SA Newman was leaning forward in the metal guest chair, his elbows on his knees, gesturing with his open hands in barely contained frustration. "Listen, Captain, we know Sergeant Wilson wasn't working on his own when he… just happened upon Se-…" He stopped, snapping his eyes shut, then smiling to himself caustically. "Just happened upon, ah, what did you call him? Vlad?"

Olsen, in Mike's chair behind the desk, nodded with raised eyebrows. "Well, we didn't know his name so…. we had to use something, right?"

Radcliffe nodded in bemused understanding; Olsen was beginning to like him a little more. Newman seemed a tad more tightly wound.

"Rasputin would probably have been closer to the truth," Radcliffe offered with a slight chuckle and Olsen joined him. Newman shot them both a fiercely silencing glare.

Olsen leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and smiling benignly. "You know, you could tell me his name now. His… _new_ name. After all, he won't be using it anymore and it would make talking about him a little easier, wouldn't it?"

Newman shot a glance at his partner, hesitated for a beat then said softly, "Sergei Klitschko."

Olsen nodded, his smile getting a little wider. "Thank you," he said pleasantly, resisting the urge to say, 'There, that wasn't hard, was it?' "Uh, you were about to say, when Sergeant Wilson just happened upon him…? Agent Newman, Sergeant Wilson didn't _just happen upon him._ He was following him because Vla-… Mr. Klitschko was stalking and raping women –"

"You mean prostitutes," Newman interrupted angrily then stopped himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as both his partner and the SFPD captain glared at him, one in surprise, one in anger.

"Women," Olsen repeated softly, continuing to stare, and the FBI agent, looking at the floor, bowed his head briefly in reluctant acquiescence.

Newman inhaled loudly. "Look, to get back to what I was saying, I know Sergeant Wilson wasn't working alone, he couldn't be. He must have had a partner… and I'm thinking it's the guy sitting out there," he nodded vaguely in the direction of the bullpen, "with all the bandages." His eyes bored into Olsen's unflinchingly. "Am I right?"

Olsen met the stare soundlessly then sat back and smiled softly. "Let me ask you something, Agent Newman. And answer me truthfully, please. Mr. Klitschko is definitely dead, and as he seemed to be the, ah, the linchpin in your case against the Russian mob back east, what in the hell difference does it make if Sergeant Wilson acted alone or not? It won't bring Mr. Klitschko back, will it?"

Glaring angrily, Newman sat perfectly still then inhaled loudly again, sitting back and folding his arms.

"You've still got…ah, whatever his real name is…. Igor."

With a frustrated snort, Newman leaned sharply forward again, glancing at Radcliffe. "He's not in Witness Protection. We have no idea who that stupid bastard is. It's probably someone Klitschko picked up here. So he's all yours." With an angry nod, he sat back again.

Olsen studied the irritated and frustrated federal agent then he too sat back. "Fine. We'll prosecute him to the full extent of the law. The women he and Mr. Klitschko beat and raped will be pleased that we finally were able to put a stop to all this." He leaned forward slowly, staring at Newman so fiercely that the agent started to shift uncomfortably.

"Which, in retrospect, is something don't you think you and the Bureau should have been doing all along? Keeping an eye on this monster you brought out here and dropped into our midst with even informing us that he was here. " Olsen's voice was low and controlled but there was no mistaking the anger in the words. "And you no doubt were keeping an eye on him while he was here… after all, you were going to send him back east to testify once more, weren't you, so you needed him alive?

"So, what, you turned a blind eye when he started hunting and raping prostitutes because you didn't want him suddenly refusing to testify for you? The lives of these women didn't count as much as whatever it is you're working on back east?"

Olsen paused, not taking his eyes from the now uncomfortable agent, who had dropped his gaze to the floor again. Radcliffe, similarly uneasy, bit his lip and looked up, staring at the ceiling.

"You know, you might have gotten away with it if it hadn't been for a couple of weeks ago, when, for some reason, Mr. Klitschko and his buddy, whoever the hell he really is, did something a little out of character. They attacked someone else, someone outside their… preferred demographic.

"They'd already raped a women earlier that night and we assume they were on their way home when they spied a beautiful, well-dressed woman seemingly alone on a deserted downtown street. They dragged her into an alley and beat and raped her, after first attacking the man with her with a two by four, fracturing his skull. The couple were returning to their car after a evening at the opera."

Olsen paused again. When neither agent looked at him, he continued. "That woman was a police inspector… one of ours. Sergeant Wilson's partner, as a matter of fact." Both agents heads snapped up, shocked and suddenly stricken with guilt. Olsen barely suppressed an angry smirk. "And the man with her, the one who got his skull fractured? It's the guy whose name is on that door," he said quietly, pointing at the closed glass door of the office they were occupying. "And the guy out there with all the bandages? That's _his_ partner."

Letting the silence in the room settle, Olsen leaned back slowly, his eyes sliding from Newman to Radcliffe and back. "Gentlemen, Sergeant Wilson is going to be charged with manslaughter and he will spend time in prison. I think that should be more than enough compensation for your… shall we say, dereliction of duty in this regard." He paused again, waiting for both pairs of eyes to find his own.

"Because if you ignore this, if you insist on making this much more complicated than it is right now, I am more than willing to go to the press and let them know how the FBI turned a blind eye when working women here in The City were being targeted by someone in Witness Protection, and how the FBI declined to do anything about it because, it seems, the life of a mobster with a history of murder and rape is worth more than a woman earning a living on our streets." The ghost of a cold smile played over his thin lips. "How do you think the public will react to that, do you think?"

He waited quietly for several long seconds then he leaned forward slowly once again and rested his arms on the desk. "You're getting one sacrificial lamb, gentlemen, you're not getting two. Do I make myself clear?"

# # # # #

Mike was sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes closed, as Irene undid his shirt and slid it off then helped him into the pajama top. He had already changed into the bottoms. As she did up the buttons, she pushed him back onto the bed. "How's your head?" she asked worriedly as he let himself melt into the pillows.

"Pounding," he said softly, keeping his eyes closed.

"You shouldn't have come with me," she whispered, finishing with the buttons, "it was too much too soon."

He opened his eyes slightly. "I wasn't going to let you go alone." He grabbed her wrist and she stopped moving, staring into his eyes. "We're in this together, right?"

With a small sad smile, she nodded, laying a hand on his chest. "I'm just worried about you."

"I'm doing fine, don't worry about me." He reached up with his other hand and pulled her down onto the bed beside him, clasping her head to his chest and wrapping both arms around her.

She took a deep breath, holding onto him fiercely. "Mike, I don't know what to do for him… for Bob."

He held her tighter. "I know, honey, I know… He loves you very much, you know that, right?"

He felt her nod, as the shuddering sobs wracked her thin body. And he knew there was nothing more he could do right now but hold her and let her cry.

# # # # #

The four SFPD detectives remained seated as the two FBI agents left Mike's office and crossed quickly, without making eye contact, to the hallway door and exited. Rudy Olsen stopped at the inner office door and leaned against it, watching the G-men leave; he couldn't resist a slightly self-satisfied smile.

As the outer door closed, Steve got up and crossed towards his boss, his head cocked and brow furrowed. Olsen's smile got a little wider. "As far as the Bureau is concerned, it's over."

"Over?" Steve asked skeptically, holding his breath.

Olsen nodded. "Over," he repeated, staring into the younger man's still worried eyes. "Whatever happens now, it stays in our jurisdiction, and whatever we do is at our discretion."

Steve exhaled loudly and looked back at the other three, who had risen as well and were now wearing relieved smiles.

"Way to go, Rudy!" Haseejian cheered quietly with a fist pump and a laugh.

Olsen chuckled lightly. "Well, be that as it may, we're not finished yet, not by a long shot. Steve," he continued, turning to the youngest member of the group, "it seems that Igor is not part of their program and they have no idea who he is. So he's our problem now."

"Listen, ah," Healey interrupted, glancing at Steve before addressing his superior, "why don't you leave that to Norm and me. We can find out who he is and have him charged and all that? And that'll let Steve, you know, let him deal with, ah, with Bob and all that other stuff…" His voice trailed off.

Steve, who had looked at Healey gratefully while he talked, turned to Olsen and nodded. "I, ah, I have no problem with that, Captain. If it's okay with you."

Olsen looked from Healey to Steve and nodded. "I don't have a problem at all. Sounds like a good idea to me. I, ah, I think Bob really needs someone on his side right now. Why don't you head on up there and see how he's doing?"

Smiling gratefully at his captain and his colleagues, Steve turned towards the door. As he was stepping into the corridor, he heard Haseejian's booming voice, "Boris, my man, let's you, me and Dan go talk to Igor and see just how much English that dumb bastard does speak."


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 41**

"How's Mike doing?"

" _Okay, I guess. He and Irene are sleeping. I know she was pretty upset when they got home… and I'm pretty sure it wasn't all because of Mike. Though sleeping in that chair last night probably wasn't one of his better ideas lately… Steve, I'm so sorry to hear about Bob, but thanks for telling me."_

"Yeah… well, listen, ah, they want to let him out ROR but… I don't want him to be by himself, you know… Not in the frame of mind he's in at the moment."

" _Of course, that's understandable."_

"Well, anyway, ah, they're processing him right now and they're going to let him out in an hour or so and I told him he's coming with me. I want him to spend the night at my place, you know, so I can keep an eye on him – though I didn't tell him that, of course… and then I'll bring him back here for his arraignment tomorrow."

" _Good idea."_

"So anyway, if you feel it… prudent to tell Mike and Irene, well, I'll leave that decision up to you… you know, feel them out."

" _Sure."_

"Thanks. So, ah, we'll be at my place in a couple of hours so if you need me for anything, call me there."

" _Okay. Good luck. Oh, and Steve?"_

"Yeah?"

" _You're a good friend, you know that?"_

"Hey, I just learned from the best… Tell Mike I'll see him tomorrow sometime and you have a good night, kiddo."

# # # # #

Steve unlocked the door and stepped back to allow Wilson to step over the threshold ahead of him. Wilson shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the arm of a nearby chair then crossed slowly to the living room area. The paper detritus from their investigation was still spread across the coffee table. Wilson stared at it without expression before he dropped heavily onto the sofa. He exhaled loudly.

Steve, watching the older man carefully as he took off his own coat and hung it up, called over his shoulder as he walked towards the kitchen. "You want a beer?"

Wilson snorted dryly. "Why not?"

Re-emerging seconds later with two cold bottles of Bud, Steve handed one over then sat in the armchair.

Wilson took a sip then, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, put the bottle on the table and stared into the middle distance. "I really screwed everything up, didn't I?" he exhaled softly.

Steve had sat back in the armchair and taken a sip of his own beer. "Well, if you mean your career… yeah, you did. But if you mean taking a rapist off the street, I think you did the only thing you could do."

Frowning, Wilson's head snapped up and his dark eyes bored into the younger man's. Steve smiled enigmatically.

"What I mean is… Bob, to be perfectly honest, if it hadn't been you, I think it would've been me." He raised his eyebrows and nodded.

Wilson's look of concern slowly softened into a self-conscious but grateful smile. He leaned back. "I just couldn't let that bastard get away with it. It just felt like everything we had worked for, and everything Irene and Mike and those other women had gone through – and are still going through - was going to be just tossed aside like… like it was nothing because they needed that piece of crap's testimony back east." He looked up and swallowed heavily. "But you've gotta know I didn't want to kill him…"

Steve leaned forward, nodding rapidly. "I know, Bob, I know…"

Wilson's unfocused gaze dropped to the floor. "But I did…" His voice was barely above a whisper. "I killed him the same way they almost killed Mike…"

Inhaling quickly, Steve nodded to himself; of course he had been aware of the parallel but to hear it spoken aloud brought forth a wave of emotion he was having a hard time containing. Clearing his throat gently and looking down, he said quietly, "I don't think anybody is going to miss him in this town… or back east, from what I gather. The FBI're just gonna have to find someone else to turn now, aren't they?"

With a small smirk, Wilson snorted, taking another deep breath. "After all we'd learned about him… and after what we stopped him from doing… just the possibility that he was gonna walk away from all that…" He rubbed both hands over his face, drilling the heels into his eyes with a groan, then dropped his hands and his head.

"How did Irene take it?" Steve asked gently, taking a sip of his beer.

Wilson sighed then looked up. "She's a rock, she really is." He paused, as if weighing what he was going to say next then lowered his eyes briefly before saying quietly. "She told me about the baby."

Steve froze and held his breath.

"You know about it too, I'm assuming?" Wilson's tone was conversational, without a trace of accusation.

The younger man nodded slightly. "Yeah. Mike told me just after they found out. He was, ah…. terrified," he chuckled quietly, "and he needed someone to talk to about it. They didn't want to tell anybody else – not even Mike's daughter – until she was safely past the first trimester."

Wilson nodded. "Yeah, she said that." A silence stretched out between them, both lost in thought.

Finally Steve asked, almost rhetorically, a gentle smile lighting his face, "They would've made great parents, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Wilson whispered, mirroring the smile.

# # # # #

Irene felt Mike start to sit up. She pushed herself up on one elbow and watched as, his eyes closed against the obvious discomfort he was still experiencing, he struggled to a sitting position and turned on the bedside lamp.

"What are you doing?" she asked as he reached for the phone, picking it up and putting it on the bed beside him.

"What does it look like?" he said with a mirthless chuckle as he started dialing. "I'm making a phone call."

She rolled her eyes and was about to retort when he froze. "Yes, this is Lieutenant Stone. I need to get in touch with ADA O'Brien and I don't have his number handy. Could you give it to me please?"

In the pause as he waited for a response, Irene interjected, "Gerry? What do you want to talk to –"

Mike cut her off with a sharp wave of his free hand. He listened, then said formally, "Thank you very much. Goodbye."

When Irene opened her mouth to say something else, he waved her silent again, and she realized he was struggling to remember the phone number he had just been told. When he got to the last number, he hesitated before spinning the rotary dial; she frowned, knowing that if he was a hundred percent, he would have no trouble remembering something he had been told mere seconds before. With a warm but worried smile, she reached up and put her hand lightly on the back of his neck.

As he waited for the connection to complete, he glanced at her and smiled lovingly.

"Yeah, ah, this is Lieutenant Stone, may I speak to ADA O'Brien please?"

# # # # #

"You know, in those few seconds I was pounding his head into the floor, I wasn't thinking of anything else – not my wife, or my kids… who I hardly see very much anymore anyway… or the job or…" Wilson exhaled loudly, shrugging and shaking his head. "All I was thinking of was Irene... what she's gone through… and what she means to me…"

He was working on his fourth beer; the remains of a delivery pizza was sitting on the coffee table. The paperwork had been put into a folder and tossed underneath the table, along with the empty beer bottles.

"You know, she's the most important thing in my life right now…" Slowly, he looked up at Steve, who was slumped in the armchair, bottle in hand. "Does that sound as weird to you as it does to me?"

"Why is that weird?"

Wilson shrugged. "Maybe _weird_ is the wrong word. I don't know how to describe it… Irene and I… well, it's not a… _romantic_ relationship, I want you to know that." The words came out in a rush. Steve threw his hands up and shook his head rapidly; a tiny stream of beer flew from the mouth of the bottle and he quickly put his other hand over the top, ducking and grinning sheepishly. Luckily Wilson hadn't noticed.

"I mean, I love her, you know… but not in a… a man-woman sense. She's not just my partner, she's my best friend. She's probably the best friend I've ever had in my entire life… and I'm talking all the way back to when I was a kid, you know…" He looked up at Steve and raised his eyebrows. "Maybe that's the weird part… I mean, don't most of us have friends from when we were kids that are still in our lives...?"

"I don't," Steve said pointedly with one shake of his head.

"Hunh. Neither do I," Wilson offered dryly. "But you understand, don't you?... About partners…?"

With a warm smile, Steve nodded. "Yeah, I sure do."

Another silence filled the room, then Wilson shook his head sharply and leaned forward. "I couldn't let him get away with it, Steve, not after what he did to Irene… and the other girls… what they both did to Mike… and when Norm said the FBI were on their way up, that was it for me. There was no other option…"

Steve leaned forward, putting the now empty beer bottle on the table and a comforting hand on Wilson's knee. "Like I said before, Bob, if it hadn't been you, it would've been me." Wilson smiled slightly. Steve glanced at his watch. "Look, ah, we better try to get some sleep. I don't want you looking like you spent the night in the drunk tank when you stand before the judge tomorrow." He got slightly unsteadily to his feet.

Wilson watched him stand but didn't move. "I'm going to go to prison, aren't I, Steve?" He sounded sad and defeated.

"Let's see what the judge says tomorrow. Say, if you want, I have an extra pair of pajama bottoms, and why don't you use the bathroom first?"

Nodding slowly, Wilson got to his feet and trudged up the stairs. By the time he got back down, blankets and a pillow had been set out on the couch, along with a pair of p.j. bottoms. Steve, already changed into sweat pants and a t-shirt, was dropping a pillow and blanket onto the armchair. He met Wilson's raised eyebrows with a smile. "You didn't think I was leaving you alone down here, did you?"

# # # # #

Steve and Wilson stepped off the elevator and turned down the corridor towards the courtroom. Olsen, O'Brien, Redding, Haseejian and Healey were standing in a loose scrum near the large wooden doors. They glanced up as the pair approached.

As they all exchanged brief greetings, Olsen shot Steve an appreciative smile when he realized Wilson was looking rested and almost relaxed.

"Listen, ah, Bob," O'Brien said quietly, separating Wilson slightly from the group, "I'm glad you're here a little early. There's something I want to talk to you about before we get in there," he nodded over his shoulder towards the courtroom.

"Sure," Wilson agreed as they stepped further away.

Steve looked back at his colleagues.

"I heard you took him home last night," Captain Redding said quietly and Steve nodded. "Thank you. Whatever you talked about, he seems in a much better frame of mind this morning."

Steve smiled. "We just talked, you know… about what matters… and what doesn't…"

The others nodded slowly. Steve felt a gentle pat on his back.

O'Brien, Wilson in tow, rejoined the group. "Gentlemen, it's time," he said, as he led the way into the courtroom.


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 42**

" _So, ah, he pleaded_ nolo _, which we were all expecting, of course. The sentencing hearing is scheduled for the day after tomorrow."_

"Okay."

" _Bail was low. Bob doesn't have enough in savings so a bunch of us pooled what we could scrape up, and Rudy and Chief Conden even contributed, if you can believe that? Anyway, we put enough together to get him out."_

"If you need anymore, I can –"

" _No, no, Mike, it's okay, we got it covered. So, anyway, he's gonna stay at my place till sentencing, and then we'll see what Judge Roberts does. It's in his wheelhouse now."_

"Yeah, well, he's always been a team player, Roberts. As far as cops are concerned, he's one of the good guys."

" _Yeah, we were lucky to get him. It's always a crapshoot, isn't it?"_

"Yeah."

" _Listen, uh, how's Irene doing?"_

"I'm not really sure. She hasn't been talking much and she's been crying a lot. She feels pretty guilty."

" _She doesn't have to –"_

"I know, I know. I keep telling her that, but it doesn't seem to be making much of a difference. I feel so helpless…"

" _Don't, okay? Don't. You just being with her is exactly what she needs… Listen, I gotta go, I'm gonna take Bob back to my place and we'll just hang around today."_

"You said the sentencing is day after tomorrow?"

" _Yeah, why?"_

"Listen, ah, let me talk to Irene and Jeannie, but maybe it might be an idea to have you two come over here for dinner tomorrow night, so Bob and Irene can spend some time together before… you know…"

" _That sounds like a great idea. Talk to them and let me know."_

"I will."

" _How are you doing?"_

"Okay, I guess. Sometimes it feels like one step forward, two steps back. I keep forgetting things but I guess that's because of the concussion… or so I hope. And I'm still getting dizzy, which is really annoying."

" _Well, it hasn't even been three weeks and the doctors warned us it was going to take at least two months, so I wouldn't be too worried just yet, all right?"_

"Right."

" _Okay, well, after Bob and I get back to my place, I'll give you a call. Maybe Irene might want to talk to him but we'll play that by ear, okay?"_

"Yeah. Listen, ah, thanks for calling."

" _You bet. Take care of yourself and I'll talk to you later."_

"I will and you too. See ya."

# # # # #

The elevator doors opened and the couple stepped out into the crowded hallway and turned to the left. Irene looked over her shoulder as Mike, two steps behind her, glanced down at his watch. "How's your head?"

Sometimes the air pressure of even a short elevator ride could bring on dizziness or pain. Under the fedora, Mike nodded carefully and smiled. "I'm okay. We're ten minutes early."

"Then lets take a seat over there," she gestured towards an empty wooden bench a little further down the corridor, heading towards it quickly before it was claimed.

He sat beside her with a soft groan and she looked at him worriedly, taking his hand and interlocking their fingers before squeezing.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, you did talk to him last night. What more could you say to him?"

Mike looked at her with a warm smile. "Words over a phone are one thing. I want to look him in the eye and I want him to see the both of us."

She smiled back and squeezed his hand tighter. "There's method in your madness, is that it?"

He chuckled. "You bet." He looked across the hall at the brass nameplate on the heavy wooden door. _Judge Alan Roberts._

# # # # #

"Jeannie, this roast is delicious." Bob looked at Mike's daughter with a twinkle in his eye. "You must give this recipe to Irene, help her improve her, ah, culinary skills." He turned to the woman beside him and winked.

"Hey!" Irene snorted with an affronted chuckle and slapped his forearm affectionately as Mike and Steve joined in.

Giggling happily, Jeannie grinned across the table. "Why thank you, Bob."

"I told you she makes the best pot roast this side of the Mississippi," Steve said as he reached for the potatoes. "And that's just one of her specialties, right, Mike?"

Chewing, Mike shot a closed-mouth smile in the sergeant's direction and nodded as enthusiastically as he dared.

"Well, I learned everything I know from my mother. She was a terrific cook," Jeannie said proudly, glancing at her father.

Swallowing, Mike looked up at Bob as he cut another piece of the beef on his plate. "She sure was. There wasn't anything she couldn't cook and I'm lucky Jeannie inherited her prowess in the kitchen… as well as her looks," he laughed self-deprecatingly and the others joined in.

Irene put a hand on Mike's arm and squeezed, laughing. "Don't sell yourself short, Michael Stone. I find you a very attractive man." She leaned towards him and kissed his cheek.

"Awww," Steve whined, grinning, and Mike pretended to throw his napkin across the table.

The laughter slowly settled as everyone started eating again but the warmth and gentle camaraderie lingered. From under a lowered brow, Steve glanced around the table; he briefly closed his eyes and swallowed heavily, smiling happily to himself. When he looked up, Mike was staring at him. They held each other's stare for a few long seconds then Mike smiled and winked.

# # # # #

"I'd kill for a beer right now," Mike moaned in exaggerated self-pity and Steve chuckled.

The younger man was drying the dishes Jeannie was washing; Mike was sitting at the kitchen table. Jeannie looked over her shoulder. "You know you can't so quit whining." Her chuckle filled the room.

Steve looked at his partner with raised eyebrows and a commiserating smirk. "You heard the lady. How about another cup of coffee?"

"Please, no more," the older man whined. "I won't be able to get to sleep as it is."

Steve glanced at his watch and then towards the living room. "It's getting late. I don't want to keep you up much longer but I don't want to interrupt them either."

Irene and Bob had been sitting in the living room talking quietly for over an hour.

Mike sighed and looked in that direction, though he was unable to see them. "I know, neither do I. This is going to be their last time together for who knows how long."

Steve finished drying a pot and put it on the counter. "What do you think Roberts is going to give him tomorrow?"

Clearing his throat and tilting his head with a facial shrug, Mike said quietly, "Oh, that's hard to say. We know he has to give him some prison time; his hands are tied. The question is how much, or how little. And where?" He stared unfocused at the floor.

The room became unnaturally quiet as both Steve and Jeannie also stopped moving, the implications of what Mike had just said sinking in. Eventually Mike looked up. "Oh," he said, looking at Steve, "I didn't want to ask earlier with Irene in the room, but what happened with that other… bastard. He was the one that hit me, wasn't he?"

Steve smiled grimly as he picked up another pot to dry. "Well, Norm and Dan did _their thing_ on him. Turns out he's a local, his parents are Russian but he speaks English as well as you and me. Oh," he laughed suddenly, "you're gonna love this."

Mike smiled slightly and leaned forward, brow furrowing with curiosity.

"You know we called him Igor, right? And the other guy Vlad?"

Mike nodded.

Steve chuckled. "Well, turns out Igor's real name is Vladimir Fetisov."

Both Jeannie and Mike started to laugh. "You're kidding," Jeannie said in a loud whisper, turning from the sink to stare at her father with widened eyes as she nodded towards the living room; the volume of the laugher quickly and guiltily subsided.

Steve shook his head, still chuckling lowly. "Anyway, he's been formally arrested for rape and assault against the woman in the alley that night, but," his smile disappeared, "they might not be able to connect him to what happened to you and Irene. There's just not enough evidence. All we know is that the blood type from the semen found on Irene's skirt is the same type as Klitchsko's but that's no help – it's O, along with the majority of people in the U.S. So…?"

Mike sighed heavily. "Well, at least he's going to prison for that."

"Yeah. And who knows, maybe somewhere down the line, the lab boys'll be able to come up with some kind of test to be more specific about things like blood types and semen samples."

Mike smiled wistfully. "We can only hope."

# # # # #

"Robert Wilson, you have pled guilty to voluntary manslaughter in the death of one Sergei Klitchsko, is that correct?"

"It is, Your Honor." Bob was standing beside his PBA lawyer behind the defense table.

In the gallery, Irene grabbed Mike's hand and squeezed, holding her breath, her eyes boring into the back of her partner's head. Mike put his free arm around her and pulled her as close as he could. He glanced at Steve sitting beside him.

Judge Roberts looked up from the papers on his desk, his gaze settling on the defendant. "In the past forty-eight hours I've gone over the details of this case, and heard from a good number of your colleagues, Sergeant, with regards to your record and your, ah, your standing within the police community."

As he spoke, the judge's eyes had scanned the gallery; they briefly settled on Mike. Steve sat up a little straighter and looked sideways at his partner, frowning; if Mike noticed, his expression didn't change.

"Taking everything into consideration and not, by any means, dismissing the seriousness of the charge against you, it is the finding of this court that you be sentenced to three years at a minimum-security facility in the State of California."

With a heavy sigh, Wilson dropped his head, his shoulders sagging. His lawyer patted him on the back. "Thank you, Your Honour," the courtroom heard him whisper.

With both the defence and prosecution being asked if they had any objection to the sentence being passed and with no rebuttal forthcoming, the proceedings were brought to a conclusion. "This hearing is adjourned," Judge Roberts said formally as he slammed the gavel on the block and stood up. The bailiff got everyone to stand as the jurist left the courtroom.

With a backward glance at Irene and regret-filled but loving smile at his partner, Wilson was lead from the courtroom.

Irene looked at Mike, her brow furrowing. His grip tightened as he turned to her and smiled. She gasped and reached up to put her hand on his cheek. "Oh my god, he could be out in two."

Mike nodded, his eyebrows raised. "And in a minimum, he could do that standing on his head." He glanced up to see O'Brien walking towards him. All three police officers looked at the ADA with gratitude.

"Gerry," Steve said with a laugh, elongating the name, sticking out his hand for the ADA to shake, "way to go for getting Bob the minimum, man. I wasn't sure he was eligible for that."

Laughing, O'Brien shook the proffered hand. "Well, it wasn't me, Steve, you can thank Mike here. He took Bob's case straight to the Judge himself, I had nothing to do with it."

His eyebrows on the rise, Steve looked at Mike, who was trying not to make eye contact with anyone. But before the younger man could say anything, Mike asked the prosecutor, "What minimum security facility is he going to be sent to? Lompoc?"

O'Brien shook his head. "That facility that just opened southeast of Oakland – Dublin. It's brand new. He'll be one of the first inmates."

All three detectives looked slightly surprised. "I heard about that place," Irene said quietly, "so he won't… he won't have to worry about being targeted, will he?"

"No," O'Brien assured her warmly, shaking his head and smiling, "it's almost exclusively for white collar criminals. Bob's being sent there only because of the recommendations and… how shall I put this?... let's say… _pressure_ that was gently but firmly put on Judge Roberts in the last forty-eight hours." He finished with an ironic snort.

"Gee, I wonder who did that?" Steve said drolly, his eyes sliding towards his partner.

"I have no idea," O'Brien replied pointedly, looking at Mike from under a lowered brow.

Clearing his throat and ignoring the stares, Mike asked, "So, minimum – that means he'll be able to have visitors on a more regular basis."

O'Brien nodded again. "And with Dublin being that close…"

Irene was nodding gratefully. "Gerry, how can I ever thank you?"

The ADA laughed. "No thanks necessary, Irene. It was the least I could do, literally. This was a horrible situation from the very start, and I'm just glad that you and Mike are doing so well, and things didn't turn out as dark as it seemed to be just a couple of days ago."

She looked at Mike and smiled, but there was something in her eyes that gave him pause. As they continued to talk about Wilson and the sentence, Mike's thoughts turned inward, with a nagging worry that all was still not right in their little world.


	44. Chapter 44

**I just want to thank everyone who came on the journey with me once again; your loyalty is heartwarming and I appreciate everyone who took the time to read. And to those who also took the time to review, I owe you. Reviews let me know if what I hope I am writing is being understood; and sometimes a comment will spark a change of direction or a tangent that needs exploring. And for that I thank you all! I hope the end was worth the trip! Till next time...**

 **Chapter 43**

Wearing his pajamas, Mike was lying back against the pillows, his eyes closed, when Irene re-entered the bedroom in her nightgown. She stared at him as she quietly closed the door and crossed slowly to the bed. As she kneeled carefully, facing him but trying not to disturb him, he opened his eyes and looked at her, a loving smile building.

"How do you feel?" she asked, laying a hand tenderly on his arm. She knew it had been a long day and he was going to pay the price for it. After the hearing, they had all decided to meet in the early evening for dinner. It was a way for the available Homicide and Robbery detectives to see Irene and Mike; for many, it would be the first time since the attack. And while everyone seemed to have a good time, a melancholy pall had hung over the get-together; it was hard not to think about Bob Wilson, who was now a former colleague.

Mike nodded carefully, his smile growing wider. "Remarkably, pretty good, all things considered." She smiled in relief but as he stared at her, his own smile wavered and gradually disappeared. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.

A guilty expression flashed briefly across her features; her eyes dropped to the bed as she bit her lip, took a deep breath then looked back up at him. "Michael," she said quietly, "we need to talk."

He felt his heart skip a beat and hoped his sudden trepidation wasn't reflected on his face. "All right," he replied softly with an encouraging smile. "What's on your mind?"

"Honey, you know how hard these past few weeks have been, I know you do. And you're doing so much better but you still have a ways to go… and so do I…"

"I know that…" he interjected gently, reaching out to tenderly lay a hand on her knee.

"Please, Mike, let me finish," she continued with a pleading smile; he looked at her sadly and nodded. She took a deep breath and bit her lips once more. "Mike, so much has happened in such a short period of time… and I'm having a hard time dealing with it all right now… the rape… the loss of our baby…" Her voice cracked and she closed her eyes. He squeezed her knee. She opened her eyes and reached up to lay a comforting hand against his cheek. "What happened to you… my god, I came so close to losing you…"

With his free hand, he took hold of hers, brought it to his lips and kissed it. She smiled as tears started to slide silently down her cheeks. "And then with everything that's happened with Bob… my god, Mike, it just keeps coming and coming and I can't…" She stopped, closed her eyes and caught her breath. After several long seconds, she exhaled loudly, opened her eyes and stared at him.

"What I'm trying to say is… I need some time to myself, Michael, I need some time to think, to sort everything out…"

His eyes never having left her, he began to nod slowly. "I understand, honey, I really do… you need to move back home –"

She shook her head sharply. "No, Mike, no…" She took a deep breath and calmed herself. "Darling, what I mean is… I have to get away, I have to – I have to get out of the city… for a while…"

She felt the grip on her knee slacken as he stared at her without expression. After a few seconds, he smiled wanly, shaking his head vaguely. "You want to leave… San Francisco?" he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

With a grim smile, she nodded. "I want to go back east for awhile. You remember I told you my brother-in-law is battling lung cancer and my sister is feeling a little overwhelmed…?" He nodded. "Well, I called her the other day… she suggested I go back to Connecticut and spend Christmas with her and the family… she, ah, she doesn't know about the, ah, the rape, I didn't tell her, I couldn't tell her… Her kids are teenagers now and they're having a hard time coping with their father's illness. She could use my help, you know?... and I think it might be something I could use right now too…" She smiled at him with poignant encouragement.

He stared at her, trying desperately to smile and finally succeeding, though his eyes stayed sadly haunted.

They stared at each other silently then she whispered, "What do you think?"

He didn't move for several long silent seconds then he reached out for her, laying his hands gently on her shoulders and pulled her slowly down against him, cradling her head against his chest and wrapping both arms around here. As he softly stroked her hair, he whispered, "Whatever you have to do, honey… you do whatever you have to do…"

Her hands grabbed and twisted the fabric of his pajama top as she began to sob. He held her and rocked her as best he could, crooning to her soothingly until the tears dried up and she eventually fell into an exhausted sleep in his arms.

# # # # #

Steve glanced into the rearview mirror; in the backseat, Mike had his arm around Irene, her head against his shoulder. She was looking down; his unfocused gaze was out the side window.

Steve had never seen his partner looking so lost and alone. Hiding a heavy sigh, he pulled Mike's blue sedan to the yellow curb, then jumped out quickly to open the trunk. By the time Mike and Irene had emerged, he had her suitcase out and on the sidewalk.

He took a step towards her, both their smiles melancholic. "Irene," he said sweetly as he reached out to hold her upper arms and stare into her eyes, "you take care of yourself, all right? We want to see you back here as soon as you're ready." As she smiled up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears, he folded her into his arms, closing his eyes as he held her tight.

She squeezed him in return, then pulled her head back slightly so her lips were close to his ear. "And I need you to take care of Mike…" Her low voice was trembling. "He needs you so much right now…. promise me, please…?"

He tipped his head back so she could her him whisper, "Always and forever… you don't need to worry about that."

She tightened her grip then took a step back, her grin so warm and loving that it almost took his breath away. She turned towards Mike, who was waiting nearby, his hand on the trolley handle of her wheeled suitcase.

Steve looked at his partner and raised his eyebrows. "I'm gonna park over there in our usual spot," he said, nodding towards the reserved spaces nearest the terminal in the parking lot across the access route. "Take your time, there's no rush."

With a grateful nod and smile, and Irene taking his arm, the couple turned and slowly walked through the automatic doors into the terminal. Steve watched them go, the doors closing behind them, then with a sad sigh he circled the car to climb back in behind the wheel.

# # # # #

"You know, you're lucky you have one of those," Irene chuckled, glancing at Mike over her shoulder, "or they wouldn't let you in here."

He grinned, laughing as he put his star and I.D. back in his pants pocket. "I'm glad I remembered to bring it." He nodded at the security guard as he put his arm around her shoulder and they crossed the wide expanse towards the Departures signboard.

Their eyes quickly scanning the board, Irene pointed. "There – Gate 5." She looked around quickly. "This way," she said, pointing to the right.

# # # # #

Slouched in the front seat, the engine on Accessory, Steve stretched his neck from side to side then reached for the dial on the radio. Every time he found a station that wasn't playing Christmas songs, they would suddenly start to play one. He was not in the mood, but he also couldn't conceive of sitting in the car with nothing to listen to; he was really regretting not bringing a book or a magazine.

The dial slid back and forth with no luck. Then suddenly he heard the dulcet tones of a DJ that made him stop working the knob and try to fine tune. It almost sounded like an FM station, and his heart leapt. At last!; surely they wouldn't be playing Christmas carols.

The smooth baritone of the announcer filled the car. _"…and my father is always hard to buy for, but he has always been a big Charlie Chaplin fan, and now, with the advent of these new videotape recorders, I was able to get him a tape of 'The Great Dictator' and 'Modern Times'. It is a wonderful world, ladies and gentlemen."_

A gentle laughter emanated from the speakers and Steve found himself chuckling as well. Then he stopped, frowning. After several seconds, he shook his head, a little astonished by the coincidence. He thought back to when Mike first told him that Irene was pregnant. And in trying to find some way to put a whimsical spin on it, reminded the terrified lieutenant that Charlie Chaplin was 68 when his last child was born. He chuckled at the memory, and of how his was finally able to cajole a grin from his overwhelmed partner.

" _Anyway, that got me thinking about the great man's life and times, and his little known and rarely talked about genius for music. He wrote the scores for all his films, and even tried his hand in other musical arenas. His most famous piece, of course, is the bittersweet song that Nat King Cole made famous many years ago. He may have only written the music and not the lyrics, but the sentiment is pure Chaplin._

 _Ladies and gentlemen, from 1954 but just as relevant today… 'Smile'."_

Steve sat up straighter, staring at the radio and catching his breath.

" _Smile though your heart is aching_

 _Smile even though it's breaking…"_

His throat suddenly constricting, tears springing to his eyes, he looked towards the terminal doors.

# # # # #

" _This is the final call for American Airlines Flight 2 to New York. All passengers should be at the gate."_

Irene glanced at the line of people waiting to board then turned back to Mike. She looked into his sad, non-judgmental eyes and bit her lip, trying to stop the tears she knew were threatening.

He grinned, his face lighting up, his eyes unbearably bright as he stared at her. With extraordinary tenderness, he placed both hands on the sides of her head and leaned forward, planting a warm and loving and breathtakingly gentle kiss on her trembling lips. He pulled his head back slightly and looked into her tear-filled eyes. "I love you, Irene Martin."

With an unsteady chuckle, she grinned back at him, tears very slowly slipping down her cheeks. "And I love you, Michael Stone. Don't you ever forget that."

He winked. "I won't." He lowered his hands and took a step back. "I believe you have a plane to catch."

Biting both her lips, trying to smile, she reached up and laid her hand on his cheek, staring into his startlingly compassionate blue eyes. Then, dropping her head and her hand, she turned and walked towards the gate.

He watched as she showed her boarding pass then continued onward. At the entrance she stopped and he caught his breath. She stood perfectly still for several long seconds, then her shoulders sagged and she stepped forward, disappearing from his view.

# # # # #

" _Light up your face with gladness,_

 _Hide any trace of sadness._

 _Although a tear maybe ever so near_

 _That's the time you must keep on trying_

 _Smile, what's the use of crying_

 _You'll find that life is still worthwhile_

 _If you just smile."_

Steve sniffed, heeling the tears out of his eyes as he reached into his pocket for his hanky, once again glad that Mike made him carry one. As he fumbled to pull it out, he turned the radio off with an almost indignant snort. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried; he was glad he was alone.

Wiping at his eyes with the white linen square, then blowing his nose, he kept his eyes riveted on the terminal doors. He glanced at his watch. Her flight should be leaving soon, he thought.

# # # # #

The tall fedora-clad man, his hands in his pants pockets, was standing at the windows looking out at the runways. His eyes had followed the American Airlines DC-8 as it pulled back from the gate and taxied into position for take-off.

Now, five minutes later, it was poised at the end of the runway, waiting. Even through the window he could hear the roar of the engines as the big airliner began its roll down the runway, rising gracefully into the air.

He watched until the tiny silver dot disappeared into the cloudless sky then, hands still in his pockets and his head bowed, he turned and walked away.

# # # # #

The terminal doors opened continuously, happy people, home for the holidays, streaming out, meeting friends and family or hailing cabs; and those on their way home, struggling with bags but still wreathed in smiles, laughing in anticipation as they vanished from sight through the airport doors.

Steve, the hanky now back in his pocket and the radio off, stared at the door. He knew Irene's plane should have left by now. Then finally he saw him.

Mike, his head down, came slowly through the sliding glass doors, trying to avoid the bustling crowd around him. He paused to let an elderly couple pass by, then looked up towards the parking lot.

Steve sat up a little straighter and flashed the headlights. He saw Mike take his hands out of his pockets as he raised a hand in acknowledgement. And he smiled.

The tears that were still so close sprung to the younger man's eyes once more and he inhaled raggedly. And at that moment he had never loved Mike more.

By the time the older man made his way across the access way to the parking lot,

Steve had gotten himself under control.

The car was already running when Mike got to the passenger side door and Steve started backing out of the parking space as soon as he was in. Waiting until they had exited the lot and were on their way towards the city, Steve glanced across the front seat. Mike, who hadn't said a word, was slumped slightly, looking down at his hands in his lap.

"How are you doing?" he asked gently and saw Mike smile before looking up.

"I'm okay. Oh, ah, thanks," he said softly.

Frowning with a smile, Steve asked lightly, "For what?"

"For, ah, for driving us out here and, ah, well, waiting for me. I'm sorry it took so long."

The younger man, keeping his eyes on the road, smiled warmly. He was about to say, 'My pleasure,' but realized there was nothing to feel pleasure about, for any of them. "I'm happy to do it," he said finally.

A melancholy silence lengthened between them as they approached the city. Steve glanced over occasionally but Mike was still staring down, his eyes now closed.

"Listen, ah," Steve said suddenly, and from the corner of his eye he saw his partner jump slightly. "Mike, I've been thinking… Look, there's something I want to talk to you about." They were near Potrero Hill but Steve didn't want to wait; he pulled the car over at the first open space, shut off the engine and turned in the seat.

"I don't know about you," he began a little more forcefully than he had intended, "but I'm really not in the mood to celebrate Christmas this year, and I have a feeling you aren't either."

Mike, who was staring at him with a furrowed brow, didn't move at first then started to open his mouth.

Steve, not waiting for a response, continued in a rush, hoping to get his proposal out before the older man could object. "So, why don't we – you and Jeannie and me – why don't we go somewhere for Christmas? Now I know you can't fly so that rules out, like, Hawaii or someplace like that but I was thinking… well, why don't we drive up to Tahoe? Jeannie and I can go skiing and you can sleep or read by the fire… and get well again… and we can just spend some time together away from all this…"

Mike had stared at him expressionlessly while he talked, and he still didn't move.

Steve stared into the unreadable blue eyes, smiling encouragingly with raised eyebrows. "What do you think?"

Mike sighed loudly and looked down, blinking quickly several times. He smiled sadly and closed his eyes. Opening them slowly, he said softly, "I think that's the best idea you've had in a long, long time, buddy boy."

With a sudden grin, Steve slapped Mike's knee then turned back to the steering wheel and started the car again. "Great. I'll let you break the good news to Jeannie. I'm gonna have to start phoning around up there to see who has reservations still available."

As he pulled the car away from the curb, Mike looked at him with knitted brows. "You mean you haven't made reservations yet?" There was a hint of humour in his voice that made Steve's heart soar.

"Well, I certainly wasn't going to make reservations without making sure you wanted to go first. I mean, at this time of year, some of those resorts make you pay a non-refundable deposit, you know."

"So what makes you think you'll be able to get reservations at this late date?"

Steve laughed. The old Mike Stone was sitting beside him once again. "Are you kidding? Have you forgotten about my patented Keller charm?"

"Oh, so you think you can charm your way into a Lake Tahoe resort at Christmastime?"

"Oh ye of little faith!"

Their laughter wafted out of the windows of the blue sedan as it turned onto De Haro and home.


End file.
